That’s half of them, thought Gildmane, scratching names off his list as he took count of the collapsed and heaving aspirants. He enjoyed this part, matching names and faces with coat-of arms. He started with a horse-faced fellow, broad shouldered but lacking the muscle to fill out his surcoat. Stallions and Lions on quarters gold and red. Trey found the name Brandon Harpe, son of Sir Brandr, Castle Aestas’s First Lance. Next were a pair of brothers. A hanged man, black on burgundy. They were the twins of Lord Gregander Blackheart II of Duskhall, Harold and Byron. Then there was the mud-blood with no sigil to his name. A merchant’s son, he was sleight and tan with almond eyes, wore divided orange and blue trousers and a doublet with slashed, pleated sleeves. Trey scoured the list for a Tsaazaari surname but couldn’t find one—then he realized, Must beAlexander Diamont. Looks like Corvin might not be our only half-blood anymore. His eyes skimmed over the remaining few and picked out the baron’s knight son by his roughspun tunic. Kornel Gwyn, he read. Next was Ogdon. He looked the very image of his father, dark hair and eyes and a small pointy chin, yet he seemed thinner than Lord Austen and somehow more meek. Trey thought it was Ogdon’s lack of whiskers or perhaps his pitiful, naïve mien.
Gildmane had saved the most interesting name for last. Jael Leonhardt, daughter of Twin Fangs Ricard, knelt in the grass below his cathedra, panting, wheezing, and squeezing the muscles in her arms to work out the cramps. Even in the cool of the morning, her nose and brow dripped with sweat. Her lips looks pale, and her hands and legs were shaking. Trey was amazed she carried the maille shirt all that way. Blood of the Red Lion.And a woman, too. He glanced over his shoulder where the Temple Rock loomed prodigious even at a distance. What is old Cornelius up to now?
A strained creaking came from Trey’s right. The bishop was shifting again, his sloth-withered arms unable to lift him. He groaned in exertion, only to slump back into his previous position. Then, breathless, he said, “In the name of our Lord God, we welcome you to the Valley of the Temple Rock. I am Bishop Noblis Whitehand. I,” he took a cloth from inside his cassock and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. It was evident that his prior effort affected him. His pasty skin had turned rouge-red, illuminating boils under layers of ointment. “I,” he started again, “I serve as High Priest of his Holiness’s Sufferers’ Cathedral, and today I am judge of this holy order’s Struggle to determine your piety that your loyalty lay first to His Holiness.”
“And I,” said Lord Austen, stiffly as if he were reading from a script, “am Austen Sylvertre, of noble peerage as a Parian Lord. I have been charged by His Holiness to test your wit and to accept only the sharpest of swords.”
Trey’s turn came next, and no later than it did, he vaulted into the air from the seat of his cathedra. The drop was a mere two feet, but dressed in the enameled plate of a knight-paladin of the Saint’s Cross, his firm landing made an impression on the aspirants. Their eyes were upon him, and his upon theirs, looking for something new, something revolutionary. “I am Sir Trey Gildmane, third son of the late Duke Troy. I’m here to weed the weaklings from among you. The honour of the Cross belongs only to the best warriors of Nuw Gard, and I aim to keep it that way.” A pang struck his heart as he uttered the words. He thought of Captain Acker,then of Ba’al. Again, he skimmed the ranks of potential recruits, looking for whatever glimmer the bishop had seen in him. “The heart of a cat, or a snake, or a wolf.”
Trey found a horse and a pair oxen, a peacock, an ass, and a sapling tree—and a lion in Leonhardt, though she didn’t look it now, doubled over and exhausted, clutching her abdomen.
Gildmane moved on. “Now that we’re done with formalities, your first trial is to begin. Sylvertre?” The captain returned to his seat.
Lord Austen stood, cleared his throat, then recited his commands. They were to don their hauberks and prepare their “horses” from a stack of carpenter’s trestles a short distance away. A half-hearted, “Yes, my lord,” issued from the aspirants, Harpe and Leonhardt being enthusiastic exceptions. The former arrived first at the trestles—just as he was first in the dash—and took it upon himself to pass them out. The others moved at a methodic march, some whispering to one another, others barking their laughter, none regarding the sanctity of the ceremony they took part in. Even Jael was swept in conversation when Ogdon made to feather her with questions. Ten years ago, that would’ve made Gildmane’s blood simmer, yet now, he looked on, indifferent to the dishonour. “Else we smother under centuries of outworn traditions,” Ba’al had taught him.
Another few minutes and the wooden horses were set. Hauberks were donned, and the aspirants had mounted their pairs of trestles, feet apart and knees bent as if they road real mares or stallions. At once, the weight of their over-made armour became painful leg tremors. Trey smiled, but the skylord was not so glad. His son was fading fast, so he spoke even faster, flatter, despite the fluttering of his tongue.
He began, “You shall each speak one of the seven oaths
