“Thank you, sir king,” Jamis said. He was struggling not to grin, Arcolin saw.
“Let your father, your duke, put it on you—for a liegeman receives his weapons from his liege.”
Arcolin leaned down and helped Jamis put it on.
“Thank you,” Jamis said again with a jerky bow.
Arcolin also bowed. “Sir king, this was very kind.”
The king chuckled. “A soldier’s son should be recognized with a soldier’s tools,” he said, getting up from his seat. “And now—Lady Calla, I am pleased to see you again, and your parents as well. And you, Captain, and Councilwoman Ministiera. Let us see what the kitchen has prepared to celebrate this occasion and make plans for the kirgan’s future.”
The party lasted longer than the ceremony, but Arcolin left before it was over, riding out of Vérella with Kaim, eager to catch up with his troops.
Chapter Seven
Cortes Immer, Aarenis
Alured the Black could not help thinking of himself as Alured, the name he had been called almost all his life. Alured the Black, Terror of the Seas, the pirate other pirates admired and obeyed. Alured the Black, leading his troops through the southern forests, allying with the mercenaries and Guild League cities against Siniava. Strong, brave, visionary Alured, seizing the opportunity at the end of that war to take up the abandoned title of Duke of Immer and control the entire lower Immer River, from the sea to Cortes Immer. The man who had risen from impoverished boyhood to wealthy, powerful maturity … that was Alured.
He had difficulty thinking of himself as Visli Vaskronin, even though his advisor insisted it was a more suitable name for a duke who would soon be king. Insisted that he must force everyone to use it. But in these moments alone, looking out of over the ramparts of his stronghold, the name Visli fit him ill, and he was, in his own mind, always Alured. Alured the boy, the boy captive, then the favorite of his master, then his master’s ally and secret weapon, then the pirate, then the brigand. Alured the Duke, yes, he could feel himself a duke; he would feel himself a king: King Alured sounded well, he thought. But that name had been changed for his own good, his advisor had said.
It did not suit your station.
Alured sighed. The advisor, who had once been his master and thought he was master still, chose his own time to come into consciousness. His advisor did not approve what he called Alured’s nostalgia or his attachment to his own name.
A slave’s name. You are a slave no longer.
That was true. He had slaves of his own now, and servants who might as well be slaves, and soldiers who accepted him as their commander, and vassals to whom he was unquestioned lord.
There will be more.
That promise—always more: more wealth, more power, more admiration, more pleasure—drew him on, as it had drawn him in that first time, so long ago.
You give up little to gain so much.
Indeed. Only his name and the sense that the connection to himself—the connection running back through a life from now to then, to earliest memory—frayed with every passing day. Yet his advisor had explained, and he understood, that to be what he would become—the great ruler of all, the crowned king of all the lands he knew, master of water and fire and blood—to become that, what he wanted more than anything, some price must be paid. The boy Alured, the youth Alured, must be banished from the man’s life. What belonged only to the name Alured—even the name—must go. And he had agreed.
“I am Visli Vaskronin,” he murmured, looking out over the lush green of the Immervale. “I am Duke of Immer, and I will be king.” In his mind, he heard the trumpets, saw the cheering crowds, felt the flowers thrown touch his face.
You will be king if you heed my advice. Let me take those memories from you so they will not trouble you again.
“No,” he said aloud, as if to someone standing beside him and not the being that coinhabited his body. “They fade quickly enough.” The oldest of the memories now … all earlier had faded … was of himself at perhaps eleven or twelve, his defiance of his master. It is not fair, he had yelled … actually yelled, outrage overwhelming fear for the moment. He liked remembering himself as brave. And his master had laughed and patted his shoulder, approving.
You were always brave. That is why I chose you.
Warmth spread through his body. Praise always did that, and his advisor’s praise most of all. In time he would feel like a Visli—his advisor insisted the name was appropriate, and after all, he had given Alur—Visli—so much.
That is better. You are growing more powerful every day.
His advisor said that many times; Alur—Visli—had the same warm feeling every time. More powerful. That’s what he wanted. Power, strength, long life, never to be cold or hungry or alone or hurt or frightened ever again. It felt so good to be clothed in soft garments, to have a full belly, to have water or wine at his side and never know thirst, to feel the brimming health, the supple strength of body, to see men rush to serve him, obey him.