Erius happily acknowledged the welcome, waving and throwing fistfuls of gold sesters to the crowd. At the gate he saluted the carved emblems of the gods, then drew his sword and held it up for all to see. “In the name of Ghërilain and Thelátimos, my ancestors, and in the name of Sakor and Illior, our protectors, I enter my capital.”
This set off an ever-louder roar of acclaim. It rolled like a wave into the city. As the echoes died, Tobin could hear the distant cheering on the Palatine.
Inside the walls the streets were decked with banners, flags, and torches, and people had strewn the street with hay and sweet herbs to make the king’s way soft. Clouds of incense billowed up from every corner shrine and temple. People poured out of the shops and houses, gathered in the markets, hung from windows, calling out to the king and waving whatever they could find—hats, kerchiefs, rags, cloaks.
“Is the war over?” they cried. “Are you home for good?”
It was the same on the Palatine. Nobles decked in their finest clothes massed along the royal way, throwing flowers and waving red silk banners.
Reaching the New Palace, Erius dismounted in the garden and made his way through the happy throng, clasping hands and kissing cheeks. The Companions and officers followed in his wake and were cheered just as loudly.
At last they gained the palace steps, and the crowd beyond parted before them as the king strode to the audience chamber.
Tobin had been here once before, soon after he first came to Ero. Still a bumpkin then, he’d been awed by the huge pillared hall, with its grand fountains, colored windows, and huge shrines. Today, he could scarcely see any of it beyond the masses of people who filled the corridors.
Phalanxes of the King’s Guard formed a cordon between the dragon pillars, opening an arrow-straight concourse to the dais. The Harrier wizards flanked the stairs, a line of white against the red backdrop of the Guard. Lord Chancellor Hylus stood waiting at the bottom of the steps, dressed in full regalia. He bowed low as Erius approached and bade him welcome, as if he hadn’t seen him only a few days earlier in Atyion.
Niryn, the Companions, and the rest of the entourage took their places in the front rank before the dais, but Korin and Tobin followed the king.
“Just do as I do, but on the other side,” Korin had instructed him earlier.
Following his cousin’s lead, Tobin took his place behind the throne and stood at attention, left hand on his sword hilt, right fist over his heart.
The ceremonial cloak was still draped over the throne, as it had been throughout the king’s absence, and the tall, gem-studded crown rested on the seat. This crown was not a round circlet, but square, like a house with a fancy spire at each corner. When Erius reached the throne, noble equerries reverently lifted the square crown and bore it away on a large velvet cushion. Others draped the cloak over the king’s shoulders, fastening it at his shoulders with jeweled brooches. Tobin saw with an unpleasant start that one of the equerries was none other than Moriel the Toad. Solemn in his red tabard, Moriel finished with the brooch and took his place at the bottom of the dais stair. The other Companions had formed up just beyond and Ki shot Tobin a bemused look. The Toad gave no sign that he’d seen either of them.
Erius faced the throng and raised his sword again. “By the blood of my ancestors and the Sword of Ghërilain, I claim my throne!”
Everyone except Korin and Tobin sank to their knees, fists to hearts. From where Tobin stood it looked like a field of oats suddenly flattened by a strong wind. His heart gave a painful little hitch; no matter what Arkoniel or Lhel said, Erius was a true king, a warrior.
Erius took the throne and laid the sword across his knees.
“The Sword of Ghërilain has returned to the city. Our Protector has returned,” Hylus announced in a surprisingly loud voice for such a frail old man.
The cheer was so loud this time that it reverberated in Tobin’s chest. He felt the same exhilaration he’d experienced entering Atyion. This is what it is to be king, he thought.
Or queen.
22
The king’s return put an end to the Companions’ easy, insular life in the city. Erius wanted Korin with him at court nearly every day, and the Companions went with him.
Or half of them. Split already by age, they now found themselves further divided by blood and title. Tobin had slowly come to understand the subtle distinction between squire and noble, although the squires were the sons of noble families themselves. But now those distinctions were thrown into still sharper contrast. When Korin and the others went to court, the squires remained behind at their lessons at the Old Palace.
Tobin didn’t care much for this new arrangement, for it meant being separated from Ki.
He was walking through the Companions’ wing in search of him one afternoon not long after their return when he heard a woman sobbing somewhere nearby. Rounding a corner, Tobin saw a maid hurrying away down the corridor with her apron over her face.
Puzzled, he went on, only to hear more weeping as he approached his own door. Inside, his page Baldus was huddled sobbing in one of the armchairs. Ki stood over him, awkwardly patting his shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” Tobin exclaimed, hurrying over. “Is he hurt?”
“I just got here myself. All I’ve gotten out of him so far is that somebody’s dead.”
Kneeling, Tobin pulled the boy’s hands away from his face. “Who is it? Someone in your family?”
Baldus shook his head. “Kalar!”
The name meant nothing to Tobin. “Here, take my handkerchief and wipe your nose. Who was she?”
Baldus drew a hitching breath. “She brought the laundry around and changed the hallway rushes …” He dissolved into tears again.
“Oh, yes,” said Ki. “The pretty blond with the blue eyes who was always singing.”
Tobin knew who he meant. He’d liked her songs and she’d smiled at him. He’d never thought to ask her name.
They could get nothing more out of Baldus. Ki gave him some wine, then tucked him into the disused squire’s alcove to cry himself to sleep. Molay came in and set about his duties, but he was uncharacteristically silent and grim.
“Did you know this Kalar, too?” asked Tobin.
Molay sighed as he hung a discarded tunic in the wardrobe. “Yes, my prince. Everyone knew her.”
“What happened?”
The man pulled a few socks from under Tobin’s workbench and shook off the bits of wax and metal shavings. “She died, my lord.”
“We know that!” said Ki. “What happened to her? It wasn’t plague, was it?”
“No, thank the Light. It seems she was pregnant and miscarried last night. Word came a little while ago that she did not survive.” The man’s careful reserve gave way for a moment and he wiped at his eyes. “She was hardly more than a girl!” he exclaimed in a low, angry voice.
“That’s nothing unusual, losing a child early on like that, especially the first one,” Ki mused when Molay was gone. “Most don’t die of it, though.”
It was several days before the servants’ gossip made its way into the Companions’ mess. The child was rumored to have been Korin’s.
Korin took the news philosophically; after all, it had only been a bastard, and a servant’s child at that. Red-haired Lady Aliya, who’d been the focus of his attention for some time now, was the only one who seemed pleased with the news.
The girl was soon forgotten as the boys came to grips with another unpleasant development, and one that struck closer to home. Not only had Moriel somehow gotten appointed to the king’s retinue, but he was already a favorite.
Korin was no more pleased than Tobin was with this unexpected addition to his father’s household. Promotion had not improved the Toad’s manners, as far as they could see, but the king doted on him. A tall, pale, arrogant boy of fifteen now, Moriel stuck close to the king, always at hand, always obsequious.