Trey shrugged the questions from his shoulders and looked himself over one final time. In the gloam of the moonlit yard, his armour looked as ill-fit as Acker’s did when Trey was still his squire. It was the best the duke’s servants could do in the few seconds left to them, their fingers numb and fumbling in the dark. He’d lingered too long with Jael in the bath chamber, and now he could only pray the guests would prove too drunk to notice. He didn’t have that kind of faith with which to test their patience. The music and dance had already been called to a halt; the announcement had been made. He would seize them in their festive mood or not at all.
Under the cry of winches, the great gates parted. Trey marched inside.
“Sir Gildmane,” bellowed Stoltz from high on his throne with his wife sat beside him, everyone else lining either side of the hall. “You have begged my leave to speak before the court. By whose authority do you claim this right?”
“By God’s alone,” Trey spoke, and the great double doors closed on the winter cold. Even so, his breath shewn white as a ghost about his lips and nostrils; and about the shivering nobles, theirs thickening into a cloud.
Only Johan seemed to retain his warmth. Mistless, he shouted, “So you swear, holy knight, but what be the Lord’s purpose?”
“To raise another soul into His fold. My squire would take the oath.”
Pale whispers filled the fog like thunder before a storm.
“You speak truly, holy knight. Such is your right as bestowed by the Lord. In this, I am your servant. Bring forth your charge.”
Father Pozchtok emerged from the servants’ pass, Jael in tow; a warm gale of chatter swelled among the guests, and the phantom clouds faded. Gildmane strained against the muscles in his face. They wanted nothing more than to smile, but that would have to wait until the act was over.
The duchess scrunched her face in fake disgust. She played her part well: keeper of tradition. “What mockery do you make of us, Sir?”
“I make no mockery.”
“Then my eyes must be mistaken, or is that Lady Leonhardt you mean to raise in our court?”
Trey bowed and gestured for Pozchtok to bring Jael forward. Only then dared he look upon the culmination of what began a curiosity, was transformed over months of toil in the yard and moil in blood, what took weeks of subterfuge to prepare. He looked and saw the changes in her: the gentle waves gone from her hair, weighed down by length and oil; her color had become fairer; her stature broadened with confidence enough to fill the ceremonial garb. She seemed taller in the black hose and white tunic, her eyes harder, her jaw sharper, marked by the demon scars. The onlookers would have no cause for second thought. “There is no mistake, my duchess.”
“So you truly mean it, that this lady, whom moments before sat aside us in gown and with all a woman’s countenance, should be pranced about in sword and armour?”
“No more than any northern knight prances.”
Ariel sprung from her seat in feigned outrage. “More mockery, Sir? Haven’t you any respect for your late father’s court? No. I will not have such blasphemy here!”
“But my duchess, she has the saint’s blessing! His own vicar oversaw the Confirmation!” Trey shouted to match his aunt’s emphaticism. Then they paused like partners in a dance and let the rumble of the crowd build into a roar of discontent.
Duke Stoltz interjected, “My lords! My lords!” From roar to rumble, from rumble to attention. “What I believe my lady means is that such a knighting would be unprecedented—perhaps impossible. For instance, how are we to perform the baptismal wash without inviting sin into the ritual? It would require a man as pure as Saint Constance, and even then—”
“It has been done, my duke,” answered Father Pozchtok. “I performed the necessary rites and taught our Religious Sisters how to carry out the wash. I call them now as witnesses.” The priest bowed, and the three sisters emerged from the servants’ pass still dressed in their washer’s clothes.
“So it has,” bellowed Johan, “and behind my back, it seems. I might call that treason if I could call it blasphemy. But I can’t, can I?” He sighed, rubbed his bare chin. “You’ve committed to this, Sir Gildmane, yet still, I dare not reach higher than my station. I am a duke, not a saint. How am I to be certain this is the Lord’s will save for a miracle?”
Trey grinned. “How many miracles do you need?”
“Sir?” the duke answered, likewise his act shattered by a genuine smile, his first for the night.
And so the captain began, Jael standing frozen before the court as Gildmane told them of the rescue of Charlotte Roywynn from a rogue during the Fair, of the justice brought to corrupted bishops and priests alike, how she singlehandedly slew a brackdragon to save a fellow squire and then proceeded to rescue an entire party comprised of clerics, squires, and paladins—himself included— from a demon that had slaughtered dozens of men of the Watcher’s Eye. “Are these miracles enough?” He asked, more challenge than question.
Not a wisp of cold remained in the room. The roar returned, and with it, the warmth of blood raised up in the nobility, hundreds of lords and ladies who believed they’d become wrapped up in some historic event. They had, more than they knew, but just then it was Jael who shook their notion of what was possible. She glanced up from the floor toward
