Oath of Fealty (31 page)

“You’ll have to take the tower down,” Valthan said. “If it’s been the center of their evil that long—”

“I know,” Dorrin said. She knew, but she felt a reluctance to destroy a work so old, the center of Verrakai House. As if he sensed that reluctance, Valthan put his hand on her arm.

“My lord Duke, I’m serious. They will have built it with blood and bone: it cannot be cleansed. It must be destroyed.”

“And will be,” Dorrin said. “When I have carried out the prince’s commands to find those under Order of Attainder and send them to Vérella. If I spend the weeks it will take to knock the tower down, stone by stone, they will get away.”

“But—”

“I will burn out the entire inside, leave it an empty husk,” Dorrin said. “That should hold the evil at bay awhile, while I do as the prince wished. Later, I can demolish it.”

He nodded. “That sounds well enough.” He sighed. “I do not envy you your tasks, my lord.”

“Nor do I envy you your journey to Vérella with my poisonous relatives.” She pushed back from the table. “I will renew my spells blocking their magery and hope those hold until you reach Vérella.
Should you suspect they are regaining their magery, kill them at once. Remember they have powers you’ve never faced; just one of them held four motionless, including the Marshal-Judicar of Gird.”

In the main reception hall, lamps and candles were alight; the women and girls stood in one huddle and the boys in another. Some glared at her, defiant; others cringed. Either expression might be a lie. Dorrin hooked her thumbs in her belt and looked them over.

“Remember my warnings,” she said. “The Royal Guard has orders to kill you if you offer any resistance or attempt to use your magery, should my bindings fail.” For a moment her mother looked triumphant, but Dorrin smiled, putting into it all the Verrakai arrogance, and her mother’s eyes fell. “I do not think they will,” Dorrin said. “And to make certain—” She released the power again, first damping their powers, and then a glamour, making them docile, at least for a time.

“Time to go,” Sir Valthan said. The Royal Guard urged them out the front entrance. The older women and those with child were put in a supply wagon. The others would walk. They did not complain, but set off down the lane.

“M
y lord, have you slept at all?” Selfer asked when the others were well away. Dorrin glanced at him. He looked disgustingly bright-eyed for dawn when she knew he, too, had been up most of the night.

“No,” Dorrin said. A yawn fought its way past her attempt to hold it back. “Too much to do. Now, too.”

“My lord, by your leave—sleep a few hours. We will not let harm come to you.”

Dorrin shook her head. “I distrust this sleepiness, Captain. It could be magery—”

“I’ll wake you, I swear.”

“All right,” Dorrin said. “But don’t let the men go wandering about—there are many dangers we haven’t cleared yet. And now the others have left, move those poor souls from the dungeons into the house—find clothes for them—”

“—and get their names and homes, and find out everything we can from them,” Selfer said. “And be sure there’s clean water drawn up from the well you specified, and check the state of the pantries and—”

Dorrin laughed, the last thing she’d expected. “And quit acting the mother hen, Captain? All right. I am exhausted. I’ll sleep in the dining room.”

She woke in late morning when Selfer called her name.

“Yes.” She stretched. “What is it?”

Selfer came into the room and closed the door behind him. He carried a tray with a covered dish, two jugs, a bowl and mug, and towels over one arm. He set these on the table. “Something to eat, some hot water.”

Dorrin yawned and stretched, while Selfer laid out a simple meal. Dorrin poured warm water into the bowl and washed her face and hands. Her clothes felt greasy, but she was awake. She sipped a spoonful of soup, trusting Selfer would have made sure it wasn’t poisoned.

“I feel better,” she said.

“Good, because the news isn’t. The man you found in the torture cells died. He roused enough to ask after his son, and wanted to see the body. The men carried him in; he smiled when he saw the way we’d laid the body out. He died shortly after that; I didn’t wake you then, but talked to the other prisoners and found out who he was. Two are from the same vill; they want to take the bodies there when they’re freed. They think they’re still prisoners because we’re guarding them. Anyway—we have no way to preserve the bodies and I don’t know if it’s safe to let them—the others—go. It’s too quiet; there’s no sign of those you’re sure escaped.”

Dorrin stood, raked at her hair, buckled on the sword she’d laid ready on the dining room table. “Do they understand there’s danger from the other Verrakai outside?”

“They think any Verrakai’s an enemy, including you, my lord.” Selfer straightened the hang of her cloak, as if he were still a squire. “They’re scared, they’re confused, and of course they’re still half-starved and some are hurt. We’ve fed them; they’ve had a chance to bathe, and they’re in clean clothes, but I’m not sure of your safety, my lord, let alone theirs.”

“I must go to them,” Dorrin said. “Safe or not—they have no weapons, do they?”

“No, my lord.”

“And where are they now?”

“Here, in the main hall where the Verrakaien ladies were.”

“What about the servants here in the household?”

“We put them to work—what they say is their usual work. I’ve had a squad go through the cells, make sure we didn’t miss anyone. It would take a river to clean out that dungeon—days, anyway.”

“I’m going to burn out the tower,” Dorrin said.

“Can you do that without firing the house as well?”

“I hope so,” Dorrin said. “The tower must come down, but we don’t have time now—burning it out’s the next best thing.”

The great hall, only that morning full of Verrakaien, now held a few hands of lean, wary prisoners freed from the dungeons. They stared at Dorrin, anger and fear both obvious in their faces.

“You have reason to hate me,” Dorrin said. “You can see in my face that I am Verrakai by birth, and you have known nothing but cruelty from my family. But some of you look old enough to remember me—the one who ran away.”

“So they said,” one of the women said. “I didn’t believe it.”

“Do not believe me, then, but believe this—” She touched Falk’s ruby. “I ran away, I went to Lyonya and was accepted into Falk’s service. Since I was knighted, I’ve served Kieri Phelan, once Duke Phelan of Tsaia and now the new king of Lyonya.”

“The Fox …” someone muttered.

“The crown prince and Council of Tsaia appointed me here, to take over Verrakai, because they knew the other Verrakaien hated me.”

“They should have killed that scum and broken up the domain—” said a man with stringy gray hair.

“Haron Verrakai
is
dead,” Dorrin said. “And his brother. All Verrakai, save me, are under an Order of Attainder—do you know what that is?”

They shook their heads.

“For their treason, their lives are forfeit. All will be tried; some may be found not guilty, but most will die.” They did not speak or move; their faces showed only doubt and fear.

“I do not know why you were in prison; I do not care. If you were stealing or hurting your neighbors, do so no more.”

“Weren’t that!” one of the women said, suddenly bold. She took a step forward. “I said only as it wasn’t fair all our food was tooken for the soldiers, and someone told the militia, and they brung me here and said I’d find out what hunger was, in them cells.”

“It wasn’t fair,” Dorrin said. “And I took you out of those cells and saw you fed, didn’t I?”

“Yes …” It was a grudging yes, but it was agreement, and some of the others nodded.

“It may not be safe for you to go home, with some of my relatives escaped. So I ask if you would be willing to stay here—work here—for the time being. You will be housed, clothed, fed. If you are not willing, I will not hold you here, but I cannot promise you will be safe on your way to your homes—or there—until I’ve dealt with the other Verrakaien.”

“Can we keep these clothes?” asked another woman, holding out a skirt that had obviously belonged to a highborn lady.

“Why not?” Dorrin said. The former prisoners grinned at each other and some began whispering. “I’m not going to wear them.” She gestured at her own garb. “I’ve been a soldier over four hands of years; I need no fancy dresses. But—” She waited until the stir died down. “Remember the danger. If the Verrakai who fled the house see you in the clothes they last saw on their relatives, what do you think they’ll do?”

Grins disappeared, replaced by scared looks.

“If I were you,” Dorrin said, “I’d be wary of looking as if you’d stolen from the closets. We made the Verrakaien change to servants’ clothes, and that left only these fancier clothes for you. Those of you skilled with the needle could remake some of these—you might look like outsider merchants, and not Verrakaien.”

“But what about Jen and Tam?” one man asked. “They should be buried in our vill, with their kin.”

“How far away is your vill?” Dorrin asked.

“A half day’s walk,” the man said. “Kindle, we call it, for the fire-oak grove.”

Dorrin turned to Selfer. “Captain, is that militia squad up to escorting two bodies for burial?”

Selfer considered. “Mounted, yes, if I send along one of my cohort. We could transport the bodies on pack mules and be there and back easily by nightfall.”

“Very well,” Dorrin said. “Who is from that vill?”

“Just me and Piter here,” the older man said. “Jen was my cousin.”

“Then, Captain, find this man something less conspicuous—” The first man was wearing a gray silk shirt, embroidered blue-velvet doublet, a satin scarf around his neck and a black velvet cloak draped over all “—and do what is needful.”

Within the half-glass, the two from Kindle were on their way
home, with the bodies of their dead and the escort; the other freed prisoners had agreed to stay as servants for the time. Two claimed skill with needlework; Dorrin assigned them to restyle Verrakai finery to more practical garments.

Now she must deal with the younger children, still up in the nursery. That took much of the afternoon, conferring with the nurserymaids and interviewing the children. Dorrin had little experience with children; these seemed normal enough, and she took the maids’ word for their character.

Except for one, Restin, a nine-winters boy, whom the maids said had been a rambunctious, difficult small boy but had “improved” after a long illness. She’d noticed Restin doing exactly what he was told—never complaining, never arguing, always mild and biddable.

Always watching her. Something about him made her uneasy, and she could not define what it was except his eyes seemed too adult, too knowing, for a nine-winters boy. Was he actually older, within the Order of Attainder, only pretending to be nine? She called the oldest of the nursemaids out of the room.

“Restin—are you sure he’s only nine winters?”

“Yes, ma—my lord. He does seem quite the little man, doesn’t he? But it’s his way, not his age. Some children, you know, ‘specially them as has the death-sickness, they change. The fever, his mother said.”

Cold ran down Dorrin’s spine. “The death-sickness?”

“It’s like they’re dying, long afore the crisis. Sickly, weakening. Then the fever takes them. Then the priest prays over them—the only good I ever hear of them.”

“Where?”

“They take ’em to the old keep, when the fever comes, to save the other children sickening. Two or three hands of days, it is, and when they come back, they’re different. Stands to reason, my lord. It’s the same with black-foot and red-spot and lump-jaw, all those ails children get. Like as not the child’s changed. Curly hair straight and straight hair curly. Only with death-sickness, they’re quieter, easier to manage, more grownup.”

They would be, if they were in fact adult minds—adult selves—in a child’s body. Adults biding their time. Adults who—she could hardly imagine this—would kill their own children to disguise themselves.

“When was Restin so sick? How often does the death-sickness come?”

“It’s mostly before they lose their milk teeth,” the maid said. “But sometimes after. Restin—it was five winters back, same year as Lord Carraig died.”

Dorrin shivered. Her father’s older brother; she remembered them both, too well. Could it be Carraig looking at her from Restin’s nine-winters face? “How many of the children here have had the death-sickness?”

“We’ve been worried about Mikeli; he’s pale and not growing well this past year. That’s an early sign, often. His mother bade us watch him closely. He’s four winters; I can show you—”

“What about older children, the ones sent off to Vérella?”

The maid frowned and began counting on her fingers. “Kosta, he’s twelve winters, and Berol, he’s eleven. Rolyan, Pedar—it’s strange, my lord, but boys get the death-sickness more than girls. I said once to my lady that maybe girls were stronger and she slapped me to the floor. But Syryan, she had it. A right little fireball she was before, all temper all day long, but after as ladylike as you please.”