“I cannot send mere pages to retrieve something so politically dangerous and sought after. You will need more power and clout, a measure of authority,” Dubric said, pushing away from the desk to stand straight and tall. “But Lord Brushgar is too old for such work, your father must return to Haenpar, and neither Dien nor I can accompany you. There is too much to be done here.”
“Yes, sir,” Lars said. He knew the castle needed to be rebuilt after being burned during the riots, and there still could be Demon Metal or Followers waiting to cause trouble. It’d be madness to leave Castle Faldorrah unguarded. He bowed and asked, “Will Aswin come with us then? Or Haenparan soldiers?”
“No,” Dubric said, and Aswin strode forward, pulling the sword from its sheath.
The blade gleamed silver and white, like a promise, and Lars resisted the urge to step back. Everyone stood.
“I would knight you if it were my choice, Lars Hargrove of Haenpar,” Aswin said in the glimmering speech of the Church, “but despite you fortitude and bravery, you are still too young.”
“As, what are you doing?” Lars choked out. Behind him, Otlee fell to his knees. Dien wiped at his eyes.
Aswin smiled and his green eyes glowed blue-white for a moment. “Malanna’s Church recognizes Castellan Dubric’s petition on your behalf. Although I cannot deliver you the pious title of Knight, I can anoint you Squire.”
Lars sucked in a trembling breath. Dubric petitioned the Church? Impossible. No one hates the Church more than Dubric. “I’m not even fifteen summers yet. I can’t be a regular squire for more than a summer, if not longer, let alone an anointed one.”
Aswin smiled. “You have proven yourself, and you have been judged worthy. You must kneel and accept your blessed sword.”
Shaking, Lars dropped to his knees as if someone had cut his lower legs away. “Oh, Goddess,” he whispered when the gleaming blade touched the top of his head.
Aswin said something in the Holy language, the musical words surging, powerful yet impossible to understand or remember. As the holy lyric thrummed in the air, Lars felt a trembling flow through him, like leaves fluttering in a gentle wind or waves lapping at the edges of a lake. His utter fatigue left him in an instant and he drew in one breath after another, his exhales floating away in vaporous clouds of white as the stinging itch from his stitches faded and disappeared.
His mind churned as he struggled to understand Dubric’s reasoning. Few squires were anointed—less than one in twenty, Lars supposed—most were standard promotions granting more responsibilities and a meager increase in pay. But only anointed squires could become Chevalier, and the Chevalier were far more likely to be granted provinces...
Lars closed his eyes and nodded to himself. It made sense now. Dubric was ensuring a political move, thinking ahead. This has nothing to do with—
“Where do you desire the mark?” Aswin’s voice cut through Lars’ meanderings.
He opened his eyes and looked past the gleaming sword to Aswin. “The mark?”
Aswin smiled and the other men did as well. “The Anointed are marked,” Aswin said. “Where shall I place it? It is your choice for it is your skin.” He pulled the sword away from Lars’ head.
“Where are you marked?” he asked.
Aswin tilted his head and lifted his dark red hair. “My mark is behind my ear.”
And there it was. A seven pointed star, the symbol of the Lagiern Throne, one point for each of the Gods. Aswin’s mark gleamed white, the color of the goddess Malanna. It looked like a scar, and yet... not a scar at all. He’d known Aswin his entire life and had never seen the mark before. It had always been hidden under his hair.
Dubric rolled up his sleeve to reveal his. “I took mine on my sword arm, above my elbow.”
Bostra unstrapped a bracer and held up his hand. The mark shone on the underside of his wrist. “It’s on my drawing hand for my bow.”
Dien grinned. “Don’t know if I should show you. There are youngsters present.” He winked at Otlee and turned, pulling down the back of his trousers. The mark gleamed a shade or two paler than his hairy backside, right beside a dimple.
Lars chuckled. Only Dien would take a holy mark on his ass.
“Have you decided?” Aswin asked, holding the glowing sword casually in front of him.
“Is there a reason why you’ve hidden them? I’d think you’d want to show them off.”
Dien paled, Dubric frowned, and Aswin nodded. “Anointing is both a blessing and a curse. Only Anointed and Blessed may harm Demons or their Mages, and the unholy know this. While the danger has lessened since the War of Shadows, it has not left. We hide the holy marks to protect our lives.”
There was always a catch with the Gods. “I’ll take it here then,” Lars said, dragging off his blood-spattered velvet jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. “Over my heart.”
Aswin nodded, frowning, as Dien said to Bostra, “Told you the lad has guts.”
Aswin turned the sword in his hands and pressed the base of the pommel against Lars’ chest, slightly left of center. “Then so shall it be, Lars Hargrove of the Grennere line. Welcome to the fold.”
Bright whiteness engulfed Lars’ mind and pulled him in.
Village of Caria
He knew her name before she rapped upon his door: Blasia, formerly the digger’s wife. Her arrival was expected and worthy of celebration; her dear departed husband had expired that very morning. How delightful. Dorjan smoothed his thinning brown hair over his wide, round pate and settled a sad, understanding smile on his face.
“Come in, come in,” he said in the awkward tongue of the people the moment her knuckles touched the cracked and warped wood of his door. He rose from his chair and trotted his rotund body across the vestibule hold the portal for her. As he moved, a light scent of nutmeg glimmered in the air from the sachet he kept in his armoire to perfume his clothes. For some reason he had yet to fathom, sweet cooking spices seemed the most soothing to his clients. He delicately touched her bony shoulder. “I am Gathemort Dorjan, your undertaker and most humble servant. Whatever I can do to help you, please, do not hesitate for one moment to ask.”
Blasia nodded and crushed her tattered kerchief as he herded her into his office and out of the chilly twilight of the evening. A worn, wiry woman with tightly braided hair, she smelled like grease and sweat and dirt and the blood of the recently deceased. Much better than the nutmeg. “Thank ye Mister Dorjan fer yer kind words, but right now I needs me a cheap funeral, not kind words.”
He smiled kindly and guided her to a chair. “I am here to provide, Ma’am. It is a pity that Maur has passed on and left you and the children alone.”
Blasia nodded, her eyes neutral. “He was a fair provider, I’ll give ‘im that. We al’ays had enough blankets in the winter and food in our bellies. But I can’t say that I’ll miss ‘im. He was a hard man.” She drew a single harsh breath and put away the kerchief, ending her brief foray into the weakness of grief. “He dug holes all his life, he did. Fer privies and ditches, even fer plantin the dead. Now it’s his turn and he ‘spects someone else to dig his durned hole fer him. An I hafta pay fer it.”