CHAPTER ONE
“They’re coming, they’re coming!”
It was my younger brother Mahieu who brought the news, bursting into the manor’s great room, breathless and flush-cheeked, dried burrs and brittle twigs caught in the shearling cuffs and collar of his oversized winter coat. A swirl of yelping hounds accompanied him.
Everyone looked at me, and my heart kicked inside my chest like a hare thumping an alarm on the frozen ground. For as long as I could remember, I’d been awaiting the moment when my destiny came calling; I’d been expecting it since I turned ten years of age some days ago. Nonetheless, it struck a punch to the gut. From the kitchen came the crashing sound of a piece of crockery falling to the floor and shattering.
Our father set aside the ledger he was reviewing and took the moment in hand. “Jehane, assist your mother; Luc, alert the stables,” he instructed my older siblings. “Let us prepare to welcome our guests. Mahieu, how near are they?”
Mahieu dragged his sleeve over his nose before replying, leaving an ignominious trail of snot on the sheepskin. “A quarter hour.” Our middle sister Honore, jiggling last-born baby Beatrice in her arms, caught my eye and gave me a grimace of disgust. I wanted to laugh at Mahieu’s uncouth manners too, but the laughter that bubbled up from my belly caught in my throat and strangled there.
My entire life was about to change, and I was about to change with it. I swallowed hard, trying to force the lump in my throat down.
“Joscelin.” My father’s steady voice anchored me. He put his hands on my shoulders in a rare gesture of affection. It heartened me and I stood straighter, lifting my face to meet his gaze. “Today is a proud day.”
In Terre d’Ange, noble families that honor tradition pledge a middle son—if they are fortunate enough to have one that survives into childhood—to the Cassiline Brotherhood, the order of austere warrior-priests sworn to serve Cassiel.
I was the middle son of House Verreuil.
We had been on the lookout for an emissary from the Prefect since before my tenth birthday last week, and I’d been veering wildly between exhilaration and apprehension. A noble calling was a blessing, but it meant leaving my childhood home and my entire family to pursue a rigorous path of honor and discipline.
Now I took a deep breath, willing my voice to sound as firm and sure as my father’s. It was a proud day and I was determined not to let him see that it was a frightening day, too. “Yes, Father.”
He gave my shoulders a squeeze and let me go.
My mother emerged from the kitchen, dusting her floury hands on her apron. In many noble households it would be reckoned beneath the dignity of the lady of the manor to bake bread for her family, but in the province of Siovale, we were descended from Blessed Elua’s Companion Shemhazai, the divine scholar whose precept was All Knowledge Is Worth Having. According to my father, knowledge encompassed matters both homely and heady and no distinction in merit or worth might be drawn between the two, although I had never known him to try his hand at baking bread.
There was a faint furrow etched between my mother’s brows. We looked nothing alike—she was slight and dark-haired, while my siblings and I bore the blond and blue-eyed stamp of House Verreuil and our father’s lineage. All of her sons and daughters were tall for our respective ages; at ten years, I lacked but two inches of our mother’s height. But there were unspoken ways in which we understood each other, she and I, and I could not fail to see the shadow of concern in her expression.
I was grateful when my mother did not voice those worries, only gave me a quick, fierce hug before departing to don attire appropriate for receiving guests. It would have been harder to bear if she’d coddled me.
Some quarter of an hour later, the Cassiline Brothers arrived.
My father and brothers and I awaited them in the courtyard. It was a cold, crisp late-winter day. As Mahieu had reported, there were two of them; one older and one younger. Although it was a momentous occasion in our household, they arrived without fanfare. Both sat easy and attentive in the saddle, clad in the unadorned ash-grey garments of their order. The twin daggers that Cassiline priests bore at all times were hidden by the folds of their heavy winter cloaks, but the hilts of the longswords strapped across their backs protruded over their shoulders, throwing cruciform shadows that stretched westward across the snow-dusted flagstones in the morning sunlight.
Catching sight of us, they nudged their mounts into a collected trot, the sound of well-shod hoofbeats echoing across the courtyard. My father raised a hand in greeting. The Cassilines drew rein and bowed in the saddle with effortless grace, forearms crossed, winter light glinting on their steel vambraces.
My elder brother Luc shot me a glance that might have been envy or pity or both. I ignored him and squared my shoulders.
“Well met, brethren,” our father said. “I am the Chevalier Millard Verreuil. I pray you be welcome.”
The older Cassiline bowed again, a gesture as natural as breathing. “Our thanks for your hospitality, my lord Verreuil. We would be honored to break bread with you.” There was a faint huskiness to his voice. “I am Jacobe Ulric of the Cassiline Brotherhood.” He nodded at his companion, who offered another bow. “And this is my student Léon, a cadet of the Third Cohort. I trust you know why we are here?”
“We do,” my father affirmed.
Jacobe Ulric’s gaze scanned my brothers and me before settling upon me as I stood between them, neither the oldest nor the youngest. “You must be Joscelin.”
I stiffened my spine. “Yes, messire.”
He smiled ever so slightly. “Very good.”
After so long, it didn’t seem quite real that this day was finally here. It felt as though I were in a waking dream. There was a flurry of activity as old Henri the ostler hurried out to tend to the horses and we proceeded into the manor to be greeted by my mother and sisters. I was surprised to see that Jacobe Ulric dismounted with some difficulty and walked with a pronounced limp, using the aid of a walking stick that had been lashed to his pack roll.
His student Léon saw me take notice. “It is an old injury,” he murmured. “Do not make the mistake of thinking him any less the warrior for it.”
I inclined my head in respect. “I will not.”
Inside the manor, chaos swirled anew as our guests were divested of their cloaks and ushered to seats by the great fireplace, members of the household bustled in and out of the kitchen and larder, while an indeterminate number of tall, hairy Siovalese hounds milled around in circles, tongues lolling in excitement.
I was accustomed to my father being the calm center at the heart of our home, but this morning it was our visitors. Jacobe Ulric had accepted a seat by the fire and slung his baldric across the back of the chair. His walking stick was propped against it, and he stretched his bad leg toward the warmth of the fireplace, rubbing it absentmindedly. Léon stood beside him, at once attentive and at ease. Although the younger Cassiline had deigned to remove his cloak, he had retained his longsword. His vambraced arms were crossed before him, hands clad in chainmail gauntlets resting lightly on the hilts of the twin daggers at his hips. Like his tutor, he wore his hair bound in a warrior’s club at the nape of his neck. He was poised and relaxed, his gaze alert.
That, I thought, was what a Cassiline Brother ought to look like—still and contained, unassuming and deadly.
Blessed Elua willing, I would be one someday, too. The thought made me shiver inside with a mixture of pride and apprehension.
Once the table was laid, we dined together without a great deal of ceremony. If there had been time for a hunt, we might have feted them properly, but the only correspondence we had received regarding their arrival was some months ago. Still, there was good crusty bread warm from the oven, honey and sheep’s milk cheese, jams and compotes, a roasted capon and Aragonian ham sliced thin and translucent. I reckoned it was feast enough, and the Cassilines made no complaint of the meal.
Such is not to say it was a comfortable meal; it was not. We were strangers to each other, and their purpose, alluded to and yet unspoken, loomed over us.
Upon the conclusion of the meal, Jacobe Ulric set his wooden trencher aside and cleared his throat. He was some ten years older than my father—later, I understood it was more—with black hair greying to iron and an olive hue to his skin that hinted at southeastern heritage. His dark gaze met my father’s with the same gravity I had noticed earlier.
“I knew your brother, my lord Verreuil,” he said quietly.
The background murmur of whispers and babble among my siblings halted. My father seldom spoke of our uncle.
My father took a slow, deep breath. “Did you fight beside him, maître?” The title of respect meant Jacobe Ulric was a Master mentor within the Brotherhood itself.
“No.” Master Jacobe shook his head. “I did not have that honor, but I had the honor of being one of his teachers, and it grieved me deeply to hear that he had been slain in the line of duty.” He paused. “I’m sure you received correspondence from the Prefect when his arms were returned to the family, but I am grateful for the opportunity to say the words. Your brother died a noble death.”
A muscle in my father’s jaw twitched. “I never doubted it.”
“I’m named for him, you know,” Luc said abruptly. “But I’m the oldest.”
“Yes.” Master Jacobe’s gaze shifted to him, touched with sympathy. “And I do not doubt in turn that you would do your uncle’s memory honor, but as the eldest son, that role does not fall to you.”
Across the table, my eldest sister pulled a face and mouthed the words to an old adage all of us had heard many times: First-born son, father’s strength; youngest son, mother’s comfort. It went without saying that a middle son was consigned to be dedicated to the Cassiline Brotherhood; it also went without saying that there were no such adages pertaining to the daughters of the old noble houses of Terre d’Ange.
Our mother gave her a stern glance and Jehane composed her expression, putting on an innocent look.
Oh, Elua! I would miss her.
I would miss them all; Father and Mother, all my sisters and brothers, all the household members whose families had served Verreuil for generations and were like family themselves, even the over-excitable hounds and our flocks of daft sheep.
My throat felt tight again.
I will not cry, I thought, fighting the sting of tears. I will not cry.
“… trust you have your brother’s weapons in keeping?” Jacobe Ulric was saying to my father.
“Of course.” At the head of the table, my father half rose from his seat, then halted. “Joscelin,” he said, bringing me back to the moment. “I do believe this task is yours. Kindly fetch them.”
I nodded and hurried to obey.
My uncle Luc’s blades and armor were stored in a trunk in my parents’ bedchamber, wrapped in oilcloth. Once a year on my birthday, my father had opened the lid and shown them to me, explaining that they would be mine one day, but I had never been permitted to handle them. To my knowledge, they had lain untouched since before I was born. The bulky packet on top contained the vambraces and gauntlets, I assumed. The oilcloth was stiff and the twine tied around it fraying with age. I set the parcel carefully aside. Below it were the twin daggers, wrapped in a single packet.
Last was the longsword. I removed it with the reverence instilled in me, though in truth I felt a slight pang of disappointment upon seeing it at close range. The hilt that protruded from the wrappings was plain and tarnished and rusty, the leather binding on the grip brittle and cracking. Save for the sheer length of the parcel, it was not an impressive sight. Nonetheless, I gathered all three parcels with care and made my way back to the hall, struggling with the unwieldy weight of my uncle’s weapons and praying I wouldn’t drop them. Master Jacobe beckoned to me and I laid my burden on the table, relieved that I’d managed not to embarrass myself.
Somewhat to my surprise, it was the sword that he unwrapped first; very much to all of our surprise, he unsheathed the blade in one swift motion. It made a rasping sound as it slid free of the scabbard, followed by sharp hisses of indrawn breath around the table. I felt myself tense, my palms itching, my fingers curling into fists.
The Cassiline Brothers were elite warriors, trained from youth to serve as guards to the scions of Blessed Elua and his Companions. A great many rumors surrounded their training and discipline, including one that all D’Angelines held to be an article of faith: Cassilines only drew their swords to kill.
“Forgive me.” Master Jacobe favored us with his slight smile and set the sword carefully on the table, resting his fingertips on its tarnished length. “I did not mean to cause alarm. I fear that betimes myth outpaces truth.”
“So it’s not true that you only draw your swords to kill?” My brother Luc sounded unwontedly aggrieved by the revelation.
Léon offered a reflexive bow, vambraces crossed. “Our mission is to protect and serve, young lord Verreuil,” he said. “In adherence to our oaths, we never seek to end a life save in the most dire of circumstances. But a blade is a blade, and it must be properly maintained to be of service. For that, it must be drawn.”
“This is a fine weapon forged by a master craftsman.” Ulric tapped one finger on my uncle’s sword. “Do not be deceived by its lack of adornment. The balance is impeccable. But it has not been properly maintained.”
My father raised his eyebrows a fraction in an expression that Luc, Jehane, and I had tried to emulate on more than one occasion. “I was given to understand that dedicated Cassiline weapons should not be touched by undedicated hands,” he said in a neutral tone. “I offer my sincere apologies if I was mistaken.”
“You are quite correct, my lord Verreuil,” Master Jacobe said. “And I offer my apologies on behalf of the Brotherhood. Guidance and dispensation should have been provided and were not.”
“It would have been welcome,” my mother observed.
“Yes, my lady.” He inclined his head to her, folding his hands on the table. “I pray you understand, our numbers have dwindled,” he said. “Fewer and fewer of the noble families raise sons taught to cherish the honor to be found in the service of the Cassiline Brotherhood. We are seen as—”
“Old-fashioned,” Léon supplied.
“Old-fashioned,” Master Jacobe Ulric agreed ruefully.
My father’s expression shifted into something more complicated. “Betimes the old virtues are the best virtues.”
I felt as though I ought to say something; what that might be, I didn’t know. The fire crackled in the great hearth, hounds rooted around beneath the table for fallen crumbs and discarded bones. My brothers and sisters nudged each other and whispered in muted tones. All the adults were still, but they were still in different ways. I counted Léon as an adult; his stillness was one of discipline and training. Jacobe Ulric’s stillness was patient and waiting. My father’s was a contained and familiar stillness, that of a proud, self-sufficient nobleman around whom his household revolved.
My mother’s stillness was unreadable. It had never until that moment occurred to me to wonder at her thoughts, to seek her counsel. Now it was too late.
I looked at my uncle’s longsword lying on the table. At some point Léon had unwrapped the vambraces and the daggers, too. All the metal was tarnished and spotted with rust and none of the blades held an edge. The leather buckles of the vambraces were rotted in places and covered with white blooms of mildew.
Copyright © 2023 by Jacqueline Carey
