enough to eat, either. And he seldom got real bread, only flat, hard disks of firecake, so even these coarse loaves were a treat. As he ate his fill among the raucous boys, Tol had no trouble secreting away several hunks of bread.
When supper was done, the healer arrived. Felryn served the marshal’s entire household, from Lord Odovar down to the least stableboy. He was middle-aged, with curly black hair and dark bronze skin. Over a brown linen robe he wore a pantherskin tabard, tied with a heavy sash. His most striking feature was his hands. They were unusually large and powerful, with very long fingers. As he worked his way down the row of boys, those strong hands proved surprisingly gentle.
Reaching Tol, Felryn said, “You’re new. What are you called?”
“Tol, my lord.”
“I’m not your lord.” He grasped Tol’s chin and pushed his head back, peering into the boy’s eyes. “I’m a physician. I work for my living, so don’t call me ‘lord.’ ”
“Yes, sir.”
Felryn did not mention the cut on Tol’s cheek. Instead, the healer said, “Show me your hands.”
Tol did so, and Felryn grunted. “They tell me you cleared more stalls than three boys of long residence here. How is it you have no blisters?”
“I’m used to work,” Tol replied. He glanced away at the high slit windows. It was already dark and he was impatient to get away.
“Farm lad?” said the healer. Tol nodded.
Felryn lifted Tol’s arms from his sides, prodded the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms, and asked his age. When Tol could only shrug, the healer said, “No matter. You’re a well made lad. Where did you dwell before coming to Juramona?”
Tol’s gaze strayed to the west window. “My family’s farm is in the hills between the forest and plain,” he answered.
Felryn pursed his lips thoughtfully. He took a ribbon of cloth from his sash, and bade Tol stand up straight. With another boy to help him, Felryn stretched the ribbon from Tol’s feet to the crown of his head. From under the panther-skin tabard he drew a small board covered with wax. He made a few marks in the wax with a metal stylus then tucked the board away.
“Very good,” he said, one large hand toying with the stylus. “I will see you again, Master Tol.”
Felryn moved on to the next boy, whose hands were covered by blisters. The healer buttered them with a pungent salve that made the lad wince, then wrapped his palms with strips of rag.
When Felryn departed, the boys at last settled down. Weary older youths crawled into their low berths while the youngest boys banked the fires. Before long the first snores began, but Tol waited, making sure everyone was fast asleep.
Judging the time was right at last, he dropped soundlessly to the floor, his food bundle tucked under his arm. No one stirred as he padded outside.
Cold wind had scoured the rain away, leaving the heavens bright with stars. Tol pulled on the hide moccasins he’d been given in place of his farmer’s clogs, then hastily wrapped his woolen leggings up to his knees. Ready at last, he straightened-and found himself facing a looming dark shape.
Even as he gasped in shock, the figure moved forward into a patch of moonlight. It was the healer, Felryn.
“Can’t sleep?” Felryn asked, brown eyes crinkling in amusement.
Tol began to stammer excuses, but the healer waved them away, his expression becoming serious. “You want to go home, boy?” he said.
Tol admitted it, adding, “My family needs me on the farm.”
“Mmm.” Without warning, Felryn took him by the wrist and announced, “We must see the warden.”
Worried, Tol tried to pull away, but Felryn held him fast and began to walk purposefully toward the Riders’ Hall. Tol continued to stammer excuses and to try to free himself, but in no time they were climbing the wooden stairs to the upper story. Not wishing to embarrass himself in front of the Riders, Tol stopped his struggles as he and Felryn entered the hall.
The great room was dark but for a single candle burning at the head of the long table. Egrin sat alone there, the candlelight flickering over his face and the pewter mug on the table in front of him. He stared blankly at the mug, absently rubbing one ear, obviously lost in thought. Felryn’s approach caused the warden to look up, but slowly, as though pulling his attention back from a great distance.
“Something amiss?” Egrin asked, frowning and getting to his feet.
Felryn halted by the table. “Master Tol is taking his leave of Juramona. I persuaded him to delay long enough to speak with you first.”
The elder warrior looked down at Tol, and the boy colored in embarrassment.
“Why were you sneaking out in the middle of the night?” Egrin asked. Tol did not speak, so the warden added, “The Pakin’s death shocked you, didn’t it? Lord Odovar’s word is law. His judgment was harsh, Tol, but the law must be enforced, or there is no law. You must understand that.”
“Sir, my family will be worried,” Tol blurted. “They don’t know what happened to me. Lord Odovar has a lot of stable-boys, but my family’s got only me and my two sisters.”
Egrin and Felryn smiled at each other, the lines in the warden’s face easing. “I never intended you should remain in the stables,” Egrin said. “So, Felryn, how does he measure up?”
Felryn nodded gravely. “He is an excellent specimen, my lord. Fit for any duty suited to his age and size.”
“Fine! Tol, how would you like to be my shield-bearer, my
It was an amazing offer, all the more so because of Tol’s humble origins. Most Riders of the Horde took on shilder from time to time, but they were always the sons of worthy retainers-not peasant boys.
“I can do anything I want six springs from now?” Tol asked.
“Aye, by then you’ll be old enough to choose your own calling.”
“Will I live in the hall with the stable hands?”
“No. Shilder have their own hall, within the walls of the High House.”
Tol nodded, then walked slowly away, head hung in thought. His injured cheek ached, reminding him of his earlier brush with the life of a soldier.
“I’m not sure I can be a warrior,” he said in a small voice, his hand coming up to touch his wound.
“Don’t judge the life by the blood you’ve seen shed,” Egrin said. “Anyone can be trained to kill. To be a warrior means much more than that. You’ll also learn when
After another silent minute, Tol turned and faced Egrin. “I would like to be your shield-bearer,” he declared, “if my father agrees.”
The warden smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Fair enough! Shall we go and ask him?”
The next morning, they left Juramona before the sun had risen. Tol’s farm lay four days’ ride south and west, in the hills beyond the plain he’d crossed with Lord Odovar. Egrin and Tol rode Old Acorn. Accompanying them, somewhat to Tol’s surprise, was Felryn, mounted on a sturdy brown horse.
The first three days passed uneventfully. Egrin explained the duties and responsibilities of a shilder, answering Tol’s many questions. For his part, Felryn regaled the boy with a colorful account of the assassination of the previous emperor, Pakin II, and the subsequent fight for the throne between his son, Pakin III, and the Pakin Successor. Tol still found himself confused by the fact that the Ackal emperor, enemy of Pakins, was himself named Pakin.
“He chose that name to honor his murdered brother,” Felryn said. “Pakin II had taken the name to reconcile the two factions.” He sighed. “He failed.”
Their third night out, they camped on the lee side of a hill, in the shade of a huge boulder. Tol, rolled up in a blanket provided by Egrin, fell asleep almost at once.
He dreamed, seeing himself and the others lying in a semicircle around their dead campfire. Something drew
