The Eighth Warden Bk. 02 Ch. 05-06

They all looked at Treya.

"I...I don't know. I don't like how it happened, but I feel like my healing has improved. I'm not sure how much of that is from practicing it and how much is from...this. Without the binding spell, would I have been able to help those people who were attacked by the ogres? What if we end the bond and I find I'm back to only being able to heal sprains and pulled muscles? Can I justify not being able to help people that way anymore?"

Ellerie looked down, shaking her head. Was she the only one who was still sane? Why would anyone want to be linked to some human mage who'd bonded them against their will?

Corec said, "I'm sorry about what I've gotten you all into. I'll keep looking for a solution for anyone who wants it, and whether we find it or not, we can all go our separate ways once we're done."

"Some of us, anyway," Katrin said.

He nodded. "Some of us can go our separate ways."

"Is Yelena really almost three hundred years old?" Treya asked. "How is that possible?"

Ellerie shrugged. "Three hundred isn't very old."

"Not for an elf, maybe, but she wasn't an elf."

"That's the part I have the hardest time believing," Corec said. "But if it's true, and she's the youngest of them other than Seven and me, then how old are the others?"

#

"We've now recruited two thousand mercenaries, Your Highness," Captain Benis said.

"Good," Rusol replied. "My father has approved increasing that number by five hundred more. Please see to it."

"Yes, Your Highness. And I should mention that Captain Tark has asked to recruit from amongst them for the Royal Guard."

"After he told me he didn't approve of allowing any mercenaries into the palace? Very well. If he sees any he likes the look of, he can recruit them, but only to his approved numbers. We're not increasing the size of the Guard. And make sure he doesn't find out about the...special troops."

"Yes, Your Highness."

There was a knock at the door and Rusol's mother strode into his chambers. A concubine of the Three Orders, Sharra was still a striking woman at forty-six, though gray streaks now lined her hair.

She spared a glance for the soldier. "You're dismissed, Captain."

Benis bowed. "Yes, Mistress." He left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Mother, always a pleasure," Rusol said. "To what do I owe the honor of having my work disrupted?"

"Don't be rude, Rusol. I've brought you a gift. You know the Duke of the Crows' investiture is coming up?"

"I am aware, yes."

The last duke had died over the summer. His son had inherited the title automatically, but to make it official, the king would have to confirm him during the investiture ceremony. It was the first dukedom in the kingdom to change hands in over ten years, and three days of parties and events had been planned around the ceremony. The dukes and barons who wintered in the city would all be attending, as would the more remote barons from the Black Crow Mountains—Tarwen, Tammerly, Highfell, and Deep Valley. Once the new duke had pledged fealty to the king, the four barons that held lands within the duchy would in turn pledge fealty to him, before renewing their vows to the king.

"The queen is still unwell. I'll be attending in her place, and I want you to look the part of heir to the throne. This is Larso, not Matagor, and you'll never have the people's respect if you continue dressing like a courtier."

Rusol sighed. "What are you talking about, Mother?"

She rapped on the door and two servants came in carrying a bundle of armor. A third followed with a sheathed sword in his hand, a sword belt hanging over his shoulder. Sharra directed them to lay their burdens on a nearby table. The armor gleamed and reflected the light, almost like a mirror.

Rusol's mother dismissed the servants, then said, "I'm talking about this. I want you to wear it to the investiture."

"Wearing plate armor at a ceremony? That's a little much even for Larso, don't you think, Mother?"

"Your father used to do it, and people respected him for it. Even now, he wears a knight's uniform so everyone remembers who he is."

"This isn't who I am. I'm no warrior!"

"That was your own choice!" Sharra said. "I indulged you, to my shame, and your father didn't mind because Rikard would become king. But now Rikard's dead, and you need to look like what you are—a prince of Larso."

More likely, he'd look like a fraud, trying to wear armor that he had no right to, but he doubted his mother would listen to that reasoning. Instead, he said, "I can't wear this. It'll be too heavy for me to stand around with it for the whole ceremony."

"No, it isn't. It's enchanted, and I paid a great deal of money for it. The whole thing only weighs fifteen pounds, and it's stronger than steel. The man I bought it from hit it with a hammer and it didn't make a dent. The sword's enchanted too, and made out of the same metal."

Rusol looked over the armor again, this time with more interest. Magical weapons were rare, and magic armor even more so. Just how much gold had his mother spent? The spells for creating permanent enchantments had been lost to time...or, if anyone still remembered how, they were keeping quiet about it. Rusol's father owned a magic sword that had been passed down from king to king for generations. It was worth a fortune, even though its only enchantment was to never break or need sharpening.

Rusol slid the first few inches of the sword out of its scabbard. It gleamed in the light, just as the armor did. Returning it to the table, he picked up the breastplate that formed the front half of the cuirass. It was indeed lighter than he'd expected.

"I think it's too large," he said.

"It'll match your size once you put it on," Sharra said. "That's part of the enchantment. The man who sold it showed me how it works."

"Why would anyone sell something like this?"

"I didn't ask, but wherever he got it from, he looked like he needed the money."

Rusol held the breastplate up in front of himself and stared at his image in the mirror. The barons and dukes didn't need to know that he'd never learned how to fight. Perhaps just appearing as if he could would be sufficient after all.

He said, "I suppose I can try it, but if it makes me look like a fool, I'm not wearing it."

"You'll look very dashing, just like the next king should look."

"Thank you, Mother."

"And Rusol? Don't bring any of your...friends to the ceremony. Let's not risk the populace finding out what you've been up to. Not yet, anyway."