Free Echoes of Betrayal by Elizabeth Moon Page B

fought so many years in Aarenis and argued for the Mercenary Code against so many who saw no reason for it, he might have felt the same way. But though enemies, these were military prisoners, and the code was bone-deep.
    He had a chair brought out and set before them. All around, Royal Archers stood with arrows nocked. He sat down in the chair and set the great sword in its scabbard across his lap.
    Then Kieri spoke to them in Pargunese, as he had to Torfinn. “For your attack on my land, your lives are forfeit. But you were ensorcelled by evil, and for that reason alone I will not kill you here and now. You will be fed and housed, to be returned for judgment to your own king, if he wills.” He waited a moment; all those pale eyes stared back at him, and none moved. “You will give me your parole, one by one, to attempt no violence on those who guard you or those who bring you food and other needs until such time.”
    “Why?” asked a man in the front, tall, burly, with bandages on his head and sword arm.
    “Why not kill you? Blood shed in anger harms the taig, the spirit of the land. If your king judges you must die, that blood is on his hands, not mine. Why feed you and house you in the meantime? Because that is the code I live by—the code we mercenaries swore to in Aarenis.”
    “We’d of killed you if you was our prisoner.”
    “I do not doubt that, but my way is not your way. Though if you choose to die, you may.”
    The man scowled. “A hard death, I’ll wager.”
    “You lose. If you would rather die than give your word to abide my commands until you return to your king, you will have a sword-stroke to the neck.”
    “You would give war-honor?”
    “Yes.”
    “And we return to Pargun … when?”
    “When I have word of your king and meet with him to learn his will in this.”
    “But Einar is dead.”
    “Not Einar. Torfinn, your true king.”
    “Torfinn has no honor,” another man said. “His daughter—”
    “Is Pargun’s ambassador to this court,” Kieri said, raising his voice. “But that is not to the point. Here it is: you will give your parole to me personally, each one of you, or your life is forfeit. When my messengers find your king, or his legitimate successor, you will be sent to him for his judgment of your rebellion. I cannot say what he will do. I have said what I will do. What say you?”
    The first man who had spoken looked back over either shoulder, first heart-side, then sword-side. Then he shrugged and nodded. “I say you speak truth like a man. How do I swear?”
    The old mercenary ritual of surrender and parole would not suit this occasion; Kieri’s observation of the Pargunese lords at his earlier meeting had given him a better idea.
    “You will kneel and kiss the scabbard of my sword. If you intend falsehood, this elf-made sword will tell.”
    “I do not swear falsely,” the man said. He took two steps forward and went to his knees. Kieri led him through the oath, in Pargunese, and the man kissed the sword.
    “Now go over there,” Kieri said, pointing. The man stood, bowed, and walked off to the area Kieri had marked off for those who had given parole.
    He was halfway through taking the oaths—so far all had sworn—when a small party of horsemen rode into the court. One was a King’s Squire, and one was Aliam Halveric himself, flanked by his sonCaliam and the Knight-Commander of Falk. Kieri took the oath of the man kneeling before him, then held up his hand to forestall another coming forward. He stood, peering over the heads.
    “Did you marry her yet?” Aliam yelled in a voice that could have carried to the Tsaian border.
    Kieri laughed. The prisoners shifted uneasily. In Pargunese he said, “That is an old friend, from my days as a mercenary. Do not fear.” To Aliam he said, “Get over here, man of war: I need your advice.”
    The group dismounted and made their way around the remaining prisoners and the Royal Archers. “We made better time than I