with his endless questions.
When they came to the border with Halar’s lands, the Count waited there, his tent set up so they had a dry place (it was one of the rainy days) to talk and then sign Kaim’s squire contract. Jamis came, too, watching the proceedings with obvious interest. Count Halar, Arcolin noticed, did not protest his son’s decision or show much emotion; it was evident only in the glitter of tears in the man’s eyes at theend, when he gave his son a man’s arm clasp and a thump on the shoulder. He looked past Kaim at Arcolin, a long measuring look that said everything he felt about sending his son into battle.
Arcolin bowed. “As my own son, I will care for him.”
“That is your wife’s son, is it not?”
“He is
my
son and my heir now,” Arcolin said. “We go to the king when we reach Vérella.”
“Ah. Then you understand.” Halar’s expression softened, and he bowed.
As they came into the city, Jamis wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t know it smelled like this when I lived here.”
Arcolin laughed. “Cities do smell very different from open land,” he said. “You lived in it all your life; of course you wouldn’t notice. But remember when you came north last fall, you told me about the smells on the way, and when we got to the stronghold?”
“Yes … I like
some
of the smells here. More bakers. When will we see Grandda and Gramma?”
“Very soon now. Your mother wants to visit them before coming to the palace. You’ll go with her; I must report to the king first, and then I’ll join you.”
Arcolin spoke to Captain Gerralt, then turned his horse aside on the broad street that led to the palace gates; behind him, he heard the steady tread of the recruits continue across the city. Calla, he knew, would turn the wagon down the street leading to her parents’ house.
Mikeli greeted him at the palace entrance; he was just in from a ride, Arcolin could see by his boots. “So—your courier says you’re ready to declare your heir. He looked a fine boy last fall, but are you sure he is old enough?”
“Not really, but it’s the right time for other reasons.” Arcolin explained the situation on the way to the king’s office.
Mikeli nodded. “That’s a good decision. We arranged a time day after tomorrow, when Marrakai and Serrostin would both be back in the city. The way things are, with the trouble in Fintha, I’d like to seeevery succession settled as soon as possible and without regard to magery—your lad hasn’t shown it, has he?”
“Not a bit, but it doesn’t always show at his age, as you know. We’ve three in my domain that I know of. A girl of ten winters and boys of five winters and eleven. Came suddenly in the past winter, without warning, in families—veterans’ families—with no known mage blood.”
“Any trouble?”
“No, and I think that’s because my people are mostly veterans. First, they’re not all Girdish. Second, they’ve seen more on campaigns, and they don’t think magery is inherently evil even if some magelords were. Are you having trouble elsewhere?”
“Not as much as Fintha, but some. A few Marshals don’t want to obey my prohibition against punishing children for it; they seem to think I’ve influenced the Marshal-Judicar and even the Marshal-General. Clearly they don’t know Oktar … or the Marshal-General. High Marshal Seklis mutters about their attitude but hasn’t been able to change it yet. Have you heard about Gird’s Cow?”
“Gird’s Cow? What cow?”
Mikeli chuckled. “It seems some Girdish farmer in Fintha got the idea that a stuffed cow would convince those most angry at magery to change their minds. So he draped a cowhide over a framework of wood, put it on a cart, and dragged it all the way to Fin Panir, gathering some followers—and many hecklers—along the way.” His expression hardened. “It’s not funny, really. The situation worsens with every tale I hear; Fintha is coming apart, and I
When they came to the border with Halar’s lands, the Count waited there, his tent set up so they had a dry place (it was one of the rainy days) to talk and then sign Kaim’s squire contract. Jamis came, too, watching the proceedings with obvious interest. Count Halar, Arcolin noticed, did not protest his son’s decision or show much emotion; it was evident only in the glitter of tears in the man’s eyes at theend, when he gave his son a man’s arm clasp and a thump on the shoulder. He looked past Kaim at Arcolin, a long measuring look that said everything he felt about sending his son into battle.
Arcolin bowed. “As my own son, I will care for him.”
“That is your wife’s son, is it not?”
“He is
my
son and my heir now,” Arcolin said. “We go to the king when we reach Vérella.”
“Ah. Then you understand.” Halar’s expression softened, and he bowed.
As they came into the city, Jamis wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t know it smelled like this when I lived here.”
Arcolin laughed. “Cities do smell very different from open land,” he said. “You lived in it all your life; of course you wouldn’t notice. But remember when you came north last fall, you told me about the smells on the way, and when we got to the stronghold?”
“Yes … I like
some
of the smells here. More bakers. When will we see Grandda and Gramma?”
“Very soon now. Your mother wants to visit them before coming to the palace. You’ll go with her; I must report to the king first, and then I’ll join you.”
Arcolin spoke to Captain Gerralt, then turned his horse aside on the broad street that led to the palace gates; behind him, he heard the steady tread of the recruits continue across the city. Calla, he knew, would turn the wagon down the street leading to her parents’ house.
Mikeli greeted him at the palace entrance; he was just in from a ride, Arcolin could see by his boots. “So—your courier says you’re ready to declare your heir. He looked a fine boy last fall, but are you sure he is old enough?”
“Not really, but it’s the right time for other reasons.” Arcolin explained the situation on the way to the king’s office.
Mikeli nodded. “That’s a good decision. We arranged a time day after tomorrow, when Marrakai and Serrostin would both be back in the city. The way things are, with the trouble in Fintha, I’d like to seeevery succession settled as soon as possible and without regard to magery—your lad hasn’t shown it, has he?”
“Not a bit, but it doesn’t always show at his age, as you know. We’ve three in my domain that I know of. A girl of ten winters and boys of five winters and eleven. Came suddenly in the past winter, without warning, in families—veterans’ families—with no known mage blood.”
“Any trouble?”
“No, and I think that’s because my people are mostly veterans. First, they’re not all Girdish. Second, they’ve seen more on campaigns, and they don’t think magery is inherently evil even if some magelords were. Are you having trouble elsewhere?”
“Not as much as Fintha, but some. A few Marshals don’t want to obey my prohibition against punishing children for it; they seem to think I’ve influenced the Marshal-Judicar and even the Marshal-General. Clearly they don’t know Oktar … or the Marshal-General. High Marshal Seklis mutters about their attitude but hasn’t been able to change it yet. Have you heard about Gird’s Cow?”
“Gird’s Cow? What cow?”
Mikeli chuckled. “It seems some Girdish farmer in Fintha got the idea that a stuffed cow would convince those most angry at magery to change their minds. So he draped a cowhide over a framework of wood, put it on a cart, and dragged it all the way to Fin Panir, gathering some followers—and many hecklers—along the way.” His expression hardened. “It’s not funny, really. The situation worsens with every tale I hear; Fintha is coming apart, and I
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