Everything Copyright Tamora Pierce.
"I cannot weep; for all my
body's moisture
Scarce serves to quench my
furnace-burning heart:
Nor can my tongue unload my
heart's great burthen;"
-Third Part of Henry VI; II.i.
King Jonathan's face was serene and dead; his arms peacefully crossed over his breast. After he had cleaned the king's body, and washed it in scented water, Alan had dressed him as if for battle. His mail shimmered dully and his crowned helmet glinted in the barely perceptible glow of the Stasis spell Alan had placed (and Duke Baird had pronounced flawless) to arrest decay. It was a squire's duty, his most terrible duty, to prepare his lord's corpse for burial. Although very few young men found themselves serving their masters in this capacity - many knights did not take squires, and in this modern age, even a war might claim few of name - Alan was no stranger to the task. He must be the most unlucky squire in the history of Tortall, he thought, to bury two knight-masters in his four years. No, there was bound to be one who had buried three, of whom Sir Nealan of Queenscove could tell. Alan felt a sudden queasiness at his own flippancy. It was not a gay matter at all. The gods must have marked him with a curse that he would bring to all whom he served.
A Scanran arrow had taken Sir Geoffry of Meron in the gut - not even during the recent war, but in a skirmish well after the official peace had been won. Alan had done everything within his small healing skill, but the knight had faded too fast. By the time the boy whom Alan had detailed to run for help returned with a real Healer, Sir Geoffry had passed into the hands of the Black God. He had been numb as he had neatly cleaned and bandaged Sir Geoffrey's wound, and washed and arranged his body. There had been a haste through it all: there was no time for elaborate obsequies in a rough battle-camp. And the Scanrans had attacked the camp that night; everyone had been needed to drive them off. When he finally had time to mourn, the whole event seemed distant.
He had felt guilty then, that he had not had the time to properly mark Sir Geoffrey's passing, but now he longed for a distraction. If only he had a powerful Gift; all such were engaged in sorting through the tangled web of magic that bound the ghost of Roger of Conté to his brother.
His brother. No one had said anything yet to him, but it was only a matter of time. They would all shun him, probably. And he had seen them whispering in the halls. About him, surely. About the traitor's brother. Why had Thom done it? Why? Hadn't he listened to Mother's stories? Hadn't he known the terrible fate that had befallen her brother, his namesake? He looked down at the king. Didn't Thom feel bound to serve the Crown loyally? Didn't he realize that fealty bound him no less because he was a mage and not a knight?
Mother would be arriving soon, and she would be angry. She had saved the king's life when she was his squire; she had thwarted Roger of Conté's treason when she was much younger than he was now. His quarters had adjoined King Jonathan's, she would say. How could he not have done something? More, he had been in the same city as Thom: How could he not have noticed what his brother was doing? How could he have been so oblivious, so out-of-touch with the world? He imagined Mother, her short stocky frame blazing with fury, demanding these answers, and many more.
"You aren't worthy to be my son," she shouted at him. "No Gift, no intelligence, no courage: you're a failure and a disgrace to me!" Because he was a failure. He had begun his training three years late, and, although he worked hard and even occasionally excelled, there were always those who were better than he. Even though he had won the prize for swordsmanship his fourth year as a page, it, like everything else, didn't come easily, the way it seemed to do for the others. He had to make himself drill, and his mind wandered unless he forced it to concentrate. That prize had been due to luck, anyway, not to any real skill.
He thought he had accepted that he would never measure up to Mother, but now, he realized, the failure ran deeper and more dangerous. Sir Geoffrey was dead. The king was dead. Never mind what Duke Baird had told him, and Sir Myles, and Sir Gareth, and all the others, that it had happened too quickly, that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it, and that his raising the hue and cry so immediately had probably saved other lives. Mother would have saved King Jonathan.
Alan was shaking. He rested his forehead on the icy stone bier, but his teeth continued to chatter. When he looked up, he was startled to see his old training master, Sir Padraig ha Minch. He hurriedly started to rise, but the old knight shook his head, coming himself to kneel beside him. Alan waited, frozen, as Sir Padraig bowed his head in prayer before examining his former page.
"Perhaps you can guess why I'm here, Alan?" He said it gently.
"N-no, sir. I mean, I-I suppose you came to pray for the king, sir."
The knight smiled a little, sadly. "I doubt that the dead have any real need of our prayers. The gods will not be moved to change their doom by a few mortal supplications. King Jonathan was a great man, Alan, a great man and a just king. Mithros will judge him favorably, I think. No, I did not come here only to pray."
Alan wondered if he was supposed to answer. "Sir?"
"You know that you will be asked to testify when your brother is tried for treason, Alan."
He had been trying not to think about it. "Yes, sir."
Sir Padraig peered closely into his eyes. "Did you have any idea? Did he tell you anything of what he was planning, beforehand?"
His heart thudded into the ground. Here it was: the conversation he had been dreading. He wanted to scream: 'Of course I didn't know! Don't you think I would have said something? I'm not ignorant, after all! I knew who Roger of Conté was and what he'd done! I would have stopped it if I had known!' But he only shook his head silently, as his lips formed, but did not voice, his response of, "no, sir."
Sir Padraig nodded. "I thought as much. You were not very close to your brother, were you, Alan?"
"No, sir. He has always been very busy with his studies." Afraid that his answer was too pat, he hastily continued, "I see - saw - him sometimes, sir, and we're - we were - always friendly. I never dreamed he would …"
"No, I know you didn't. It's a terrible thing, Alan, a terrible thing." The older man was pensive for a moment. "And it isn't your fault. You do know that?"
"Yes, sir." But Alan would not meet his eyes.
"Look at me, boy," the knight ordered, and, as Alan obeyed, he continued. "You aren't a mage, Alan. Oh, I know, you've some of the Gift, but it isn't your study. You're a squire, a warrior, soon you'll be a knight. Your duty to the Crown is in your sword-arm, not your magic. There was nothing you could have done for the king. You could not have saved him. Do you understand me, Alan?"
"Yes, sir." Mother would have been able to save the king.
"Now there are some," the training master went on, as if reading his thoughts, "who might have done some good there - I do understand that. The Lioness, for one. Perhaps Master Salmalín." He scowled. "But these are far and few between, Alan. We expect a great deal from our young men, but we do not expect them all to be heroes. And even your mother, redoubtable as she is … I don't know if even she could have saved the king. It was a late-night attack, instantaneous, and the magic - well, I've spent all morning being told by the best mages we have (though I don't know that I trust them to know what's what) that it was absolutely unknown. You must not feel guilty," he added sharply. "For all the gods, pull yourself together, boy!"
Alan shuddered, but then drew himself up. "I'm sorry, sir."
"You aren't alone, Alan," Sir Padraig said, more gently. "But the world has not stopped turning for King Jonathan's passing. We can mourn, and we can wish things had been different; however, we all have our duties to fulfill. And you cannot fill yours while you drown yourself in undeserved guilt."
"But I haven't got a knight-master," Alan muttered.
"What's that?"
"I haven't got a knight-master, sir," Alan said, "I don't know what my duties are, now."
"Aren't you a noble, Alan?"
"Yes, sir." His father had been common-born, but Mother's family went all the way back. It was a rhetorical question, anyway: commoners couldn't train for their shields.
"Then act like one. You shouldn't need a direction for every single action you take. I had hoped that I trained my boys better than that. How can you lead a rabble of peasants if you can't lead yourself?"
Alan hung his head. Lord Raoul trained his squires to command… "Is there anything you need done, sir? As I don't have any formal duties just now?"
"That's better. As it happens, I cannot supervise my younger pages with their staff-work this afternoon. And, Alan, they may miss their academic classes as far as is necessary, but their combat training must not lie fallow. So, come on." He got up, and Alan tentatively followed him out.
"Sir?"
"I'm sure you can manage a double-handful of ten and eleven year-olds," the knight said over his shoulder.
REVISED 26-4-05: added one line of dialogue
