Rulenka II

"I do so swear," said the squire.

The sun gleamed off the edges of Glory Thrice-forged, Rulenka's ancestral blade, as she held it aloft, parallel to the ground. Her grip was loose and ladylike, as would be expected. It was a curious thing, she thought, to hold a sword wrong. When she sat a horse, she did so side-saddle, of course, to protect her modesty. But is holding a sword properly immodest? Whose feelings am I protecting?

It wasn't as if she was a stranger to holding the blade. As a girl, she'd been fascinated with her father's weapon, a badge of office, a symbol of power, and above all, an ancient relic proving his lineage. Glory was forged first in the eternal fires of Ulden Caer, or at least the legends claimed. Eleka Argard received the weapon as a gift from the dwarf-lords of Kol Turin as recognition of her victory over them; such was their custom. And it was a thing of beauty: a truesilver blade that gleams almost as bright in torchlight as under the noonday sun, bringing the light of dawn to the darkest of night. It was always warm to the touch, and could, at a command from a true wielder of Argard blood, burst into flame, burning as long as need be to burn the wicked, without ever blackening or turning brittle in the heat.

All of that was legend, of course. If it had such powers, it must have lost them the first or second time it had been shattered.

The first time had been in the Battle of Sundered Hill. Lady Alyska Argard, Bannerman to King Orendil, bore it in battle against a rage of dragons led by Auldellise the Awakened. The dragon elder led a host of thousands of her kind, along with a dozen servitor armies each large enough to conquer the modern Crownlands. Such was the glory of those days, and the might of the Kingdom of the Sword, that man stood firm against such an onslaught, and won the day.

Perhaps it had something to do with the Titanguard, she had to admit. The knights of old, it was said, did battle with dragons from within suits of armor equal in size to such beasts, animated by ancient artifice long forgotten. The Knights Titan strode across the field of battle as iron giants, with swords fifty feet long, and when that wasn't enough, they would change their form, trading arms for wings, taking to the skies to meet the dragons head-on.

If such tales were to be believed, Rula wondered, would Glory really be so glorious? What use would a sword of ordinary scale be in a battle between steel giants and a thousand dragons? If the family legends spoke true, and hadn't been muddled by a few lost generations during the Kurnish Invasions, Alyska was brought low in a tangle with a dragon, but she survived the fall. She extricated herself from the ruins of her Titanmail, drew her ancestral blade, and charged up the Titan's massive sword like a ship's boarding ramp. She leapt into the air, and the dragon snapped her in its jaws--but she was not yet done with it, and from within its mouth she struck a mortal blow. Sword and wielder both were burned in the creature's dying breath, but even dragon's fire wasn't enough to destroy Glory; the legends preferred that the mighty blade survived the battle, only to shatter in concert with the Dynasty Blade itself when Orendil perished.

Even if the rest were somehow true, the last part was surely some bard's fancy. Dragon's fire ought to have been enough to make ruin of any sword, magic fire or no. Yet the blade only snapped cleanly, weakened but unburnt in the infernal heat, and both halves were recovered and later reforged.

The legends prefer that it retained its power, and indeed had only grown stronger with its taste of dragon's blood. The Argards wielded the blade against the Auber Khans, and it was present when Brigdhon Mason and Walgrave Breddic retook Menendara from the Stonehand Prince. As recently as the tenth century, it was known to have been wielded against a host of monsters by Margaz Kozan, squire to one of the Gate Lord's bannermen, who picked up the sword when Renkos Argard had died and all seemed lost...only to ignite it with such fury that a horde of monsters and espers could not stand against it.

It was lost then, and found again generations later, in the time of her great-grandfather Arkos, this time delivered by mysterious elves who'd taken the liberty of reforging it once more. It was anyone's guess whether the tale was to be believed; it seemed far simpler to forge a new blade that matched the description of the old closely enough.

If the sword was false, it was certainly not unworthy to carry on the name Glory. It was every bit as bright as the legends said, reflecting the scantest light as if it were a noon sun. The blade was truesilver; none could argue otherwise, with its mirror finish and light weight. The hilt was a thing of beauty, a frozen flame of gold licking at the blade's base, bearing the Dawn Star--the ancient symbol of Argard, and perhaps precursor the faith's own eight-pointed starburst. At the heart of the star was a large, deep red ruby, the Dragon's Eye, so named for its iris-like patterns, though some said it had absorbed the essence of the dragon it slew, and the eye remained ever watchful.

She didn't like the idea of being watched by an ancient foe of her family, a dragon who had likely lived for thousands of years before the earliest Lords of Argard, and who--by all accounts--had possessed the gift of magic. It was easier to imagine that the blade was an elaborate replica, no less beautiful, nor battle-worthy, and certainly valuable beyond reckoning, a fitting symbol of her family's ancient pride.

And, in this case, a stand-in for the Dynasty Blade. Since the King of the Sword hadn't shown up these last eight hundred years, nor had anyone seen a trace of his sword since his fall on Sundered Hill, the next best thing is the ancestral weapon of his highest lieutenant, Eleka Argard, Knight of the Round, and mother to the first High Lord of the Morrowood. ''A weapon that failed the Realm just as the King's did,'' she thought bitterly in a moment of frustration. She didn't mean to think ill of her ancestors or her liege--but she had been holding the sword aloft for minutes now, and it was getting awfully heavy in that awkward grip.

In times past, she--or more rightfully the King--would have concluded the ritual of knighthood, speaking the words and drawing the blood. Yak, slice, a new knight rises. Easy peasy.

But apparently God wanted to punish the lords of men for the fall of his chosen King, and so He sent His emissary, the Supreme Potentate, to yammer on about holy vows and sacred duties, and generally milk his time before the Lords assembled for all his worth. His Holiness was a man who had much to say.

He conferred his and His blessing upon the squire--the poor boy's knees must be ground to powder from kneeling so long--anointing him with oil and speaking the sort-of-ancient words. Knighthood was an old, old tradition, dating back at least to the time of Aristur First-King, if not to the time Beyond the Sea. Older gods than the One conferred their blessing in times past, with the help of druids, and high priests, but when the King was present with his Sword, no emissary was needed. The Dynasty Blade made Kings, it could very well make Knights without help.

''If this were it, I'd make ten thousand knights, a king, and a suit of Titanmail to send him off in,'' she thought wryly, but suppressed the thought. Such a thing could only happen were she the sword's rightful wielder, and she couldn't imagine the Holy One would turn to her before running out of men with at least one hand still attached.

It wasn't as if she were an apostate. Surely, in her youth, she was--at best--impatient in matters of faith, but she had learned to pray, confess, and give grace with a fervor befitting a High Lady. But it was all a show, as much as this ceremony, and all but the hundredth part of her life at court.

She knew what God thought of her. She'd known that night her father burned, and the Sisters took her family away. "God has called your father to his Kingdom," the elder one had said. Just as He had called Anna to his service. And apparently he couldn't find anyone to so much as bring a message to the younger sister. If God had a plan for Rulenka, it was to burn everything she held dear, and force her to watch as her realm and people fiddled as the fire spread to all the lands of Man.

She was sending this man--this boy, in truth--to his death. ''I may as well lop his head clean off and save him the trouble. The Kurns are stirring, the Mage-lords run rampant, and the Old Stone's strength has crumbled. The realm gathers its scant armies behind the skirts of a girl who can't even hold a sword. I stand guard for all mankind. Dawn has come indeed.''

All eyes were on her. She realized it had been uncomfortably silent for a moment too long. The Emissary must have finished his blessing, and it was finally time for her words. She struggled to recall them, and knew a moment of panic when her mind came up short.

Her hands acted as if of their own accord, raising the blade to the sky. "The light," she pronounced loudly, well off the usual script, "shines on, even when we have not eyes to see. The time of Chaos shall end. The stalwart hearts of men such as you will drive back the darkness, until the Dawn comes again."

She lowered the blade back to the boy, who met her eyes. She expected confusion, embarrasment, or the usual look men gave her, the look that always made her feel like she'd stolen her father's crown. But instead, she saw something else...he was, if she dared to imagine, inspired.

For a moment, she lost herself; her thoughts silenced, and she could truly feel without distraction. Without words, she seemed to understand. This was her man, her knight, and she his Lady, his commander. He'd been anointed by the Emissary, but the sword was ever the true symbol of the knight's power, and she was about to take his blood, to lay claim to it, to wield his life as a weapon. He is my sword, she knew, and all the others. Glory does not bleed, but they do. I must be cautious with his life, and yet I owe him the chance to prove his worth and honor his vows. I must wield this sword, and I must never forget the cost of doing so.

She lowered the sword to his reach. "In the name of the King, to guard the realms of Man, to protect the weak and innocent, to uphold the holy faith, for life and unto death, will you shed your blood?"

The young man took the edge of the sword firmly and without hesitation. Its edge cut easily, and he did not flinch. Blood dripped from his hands onto the sacred stones. He spoke clearly, the slight crack in his voice a painful reminder of just how young this "man" was, this warrior she would send to die in her name.

"I, Quintus, son of Cronus of House Freyne, do solemnly swear, on my blood, and in the sight of God: I shall serve the Kingdom and the King, the faith and the Holy One. I shall protect the meek and the frail, the great and the small. I shall uphold the Thirteen Laws, and the Laws of the Holy Faith. I pledge my life, my sword, and my sacred honor to you, my lady. In the name of the King."

The breath froze in her throat. She could only continue, speaking the words she'd said so many times before.

"Then rise, Ser Quintus, Knight of the Dawn." She lifted the sword aloft, allowing it to slip into a proper grip, resting against her shoulder with point high, in a military parade rest. The boy ceased kneeling, and the man rose.

If any had taken notice of his slip, they weren't letting it show. But how could they not have? If Quintus had been eight hundred years old, he might have been forgiven for slipping into the ancient words, but the vows of a knight had not changed for centuries. He had been meant to pledge himself to the King, as all knights do, as they always have. Not to her. Not to a girl with her father's sword and a circlet she refused to call a crown.

Ser Quintus gave his respects to the Emissary, kissing his ring and muttering the words, in as curt and brief a gesture as she'd ever seen anyone dare with his high Holiness. For his part, the Potentate seemed to care little, and turned to resume conversation with his attendant, the fat cardinal in red.

The new knight knelt once more, drawing forth his sheathed sword, laying it flat before her. "My lady, your grace," he began, even as her man was taking Glory from her to return it to safety. "I beg of you the honor to serve. I would ride forthwith to do as you will. I pray you make use of my sword."

She hadn't expected any of this. He was some baronet's boy from Summer's End, who'd squired well enough to be included with this week's batch of new spurs. She certainly wasn't ready for the way he looked to her--not as a mouthpiece to speak the words that would give him a title, and that much more personal glory--but as a lady, a High Lady in truth. He was a true believer, this one; his like were rare as summer snows.

"In truth, Ser Quintus," she began, connecting the threads in her mind, "I have need of an emissary. I do not expect you should have to wield that proud blade in anger, but the task is no less dire."

She smiled, not quite able to believe in divine providence, but happy enough to accept a gift when it is offered. She had wondered at length who she could trust with her message. It was vital that the Captain receive her word before anyone could discern her intentions. None of her lords, or their knights, or even her own castle hands could be trusted, not entirely. But this one, this true knight...

She dispatched him at once, and he moved with all haste and zeal. None could have foreseen his boldness, nor made any preparation to have him followed. It was well and good.

If God were truly on her side, he would speed the boy to the mercenary captain, so he might consider her offer free of any interference. She was quite certain he would find the price reasonable.

''And he shall be my man. Not the Emissary's. Not the Lords Banner. Mine, and his thousand swords with him.''

She watched her knight go, and felt for Glory's hilt, which wasn't there. Around her, the Lords encircled.