King Uthil had changed a lot in the year since Brand saw him last, and not for the better. His skin had turned the same iron-gray as his hair, rheumy eyes sunken in dark shadows. He seemed shrivelled in his chair, scarcely moving, as though the King’s Circle on his brow was a crushing weight, hands trembling as he hugged his naked sword.
Father Yarvi perched on a stool at the king’s side, Queen Laithlin sat bolt upright on the other, shoulders back, fists clenched on her knees, sweeping the crowd with her pale stare as though she could make up for her husband’s weakness with her strength.
Thorn stood at the queen’s shoulder, pointed chin up and with a challenge in her eyes, arms folded and the elf-bangle burning a chill white on her wrist. She looked like something from the songs, a Chosen Shield from her toes to her half-shaved scalp. Brand could hardly believe he’d clambered out of her bed an hour before. At least he had one thing to feel pleased about.
The king looked slowly down the line of boys to Brand, and cleared his throat.
“You are young,” he said, voice so crackly quiet it could hardly be heard over the wind flapping the tent cloth. “But Master Hunnan has judged you worthy, and Gettland is beset by enemies.” He raised himself a little in his seat, a glimpse of the man whose speech Brand had thrilled to on the beach before Thorlby. “We march to Amon’s Tooth to meet the Vanstermen in battle, and we need every shield!” He was caught by a coughing fit, and croaked out, “Steel is the answer.” Then slumped back in his chair, Father Yarvi leaning close to whisper in his ear.
Master Hunnan stepped up with sword in hand and frown on face to stand over the first of the boys. “Do you swear loyalty to Gettland?”
The lad swallowed. “I do.”
“Do you swear to serve your king?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear to stand by your shoulder-man in the shield wall, and obey your betters?”
“I do.”
“Then rise a warrior of Gettland!”
The boy did, looking a lot more scared than happy, and all about him men drummed fists on their chests, clattered ax-hafts on shield rims, thumped boots on the earth in approval.
It took a moment’s struggle for Brand to swallow. Soon it would be his turn. Should have been the proudest day of his life. But as he thought of the ashes of Halleby and Rissentoft, of the old man bleeding on his doorstep and the woman with the rope around her neck, pride wasn’t his first feeling.
The crowd cheered as the second boy said his third “I do” and the man behind jerked him to his feet like a fish from a pond.
Brand caught Thorn’s eye, and her mouth curled up in the faintest smile. He would’ve smiled back, if he hadn’t been churning with doubts. Do good, his mother told him with her dying breath. What good had they done at Rissentoft the other night?
The third lad had tears in his eyes again as he swore his oaths, but the warriors took them for tears of pride and gave him the loudest cheer so far, the clashing of weapons cutting at Brand’s jangling nerves.
Hunnan worked his jaw, frown hardening even further as Brand stepped up to him, and the men fell silent.
“Do you swear loyalty to Gettland?”
“I do,” croaked Brand, his mouth dry.
“Do you swear to serve your king?”
“I do,” croaked Brand, heart thumping in his ears.
“Do you swear to stand by your shoulder-man in the shield wall, and obey your betters?”
Brand opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. Silence stretched out. Smiles faded. He felt every eye on him. There was a faint scraping of metal as warriors stirred uneasily.
“Well?” snapped Hunnan.
“No.”
The silence stretched for a pregnant moment longer, like the silence before a cloudburst, then a disbelieving mutter started up.
Hunnan stared down, astonished. “What?”
“Stand, boy,” came the king’s rasping voice, the noise growing angrier as Brand got to his feet. “I never heard of such a thing before. Why will you not swear your oath?”
“Because he’s a coward,” snarled Hunnan.
More muttering, angrier still. The boy beside Brand stared at him with wide eyes. Rulf bunched his fists. Father Yarvi raised one brow. Thorn took a step forward, her mouth twisting, but the queen stopped her with a raised finger.
With a wincing effort the king held up one bony hand, eyes on Brand, and his warriors fell silent. “I asked him.”
“Maybe I am a coward,” said Brand, though his voice sounded out a good deal more boldly than usual. “Master Hunnan killed an old farmer the other night, and I was too coward to stop him. We burned a village and I was too coward to speak out. He set three students on one as a test and I was too coward to stand for the one. Standing for the weak against the strong. Isn’t that what a warrior should be?”
“Damn you for a liar!” snarled Hunnan, “I’ll—”
“You’ll hold your tongue!” growled Father Yarvi, “until the king asks you to speak.”