Free Oath of Fealty by Elizabeth Moon Page A

so. Meanwhile, these are clothes the previous king wore rarely or never, made for him before his final illness.”
    Bathed and dressed, in a mix of his own clothes and shirt and doublet in Lyonya’s royal colors, Kieri felt more than ready for breakfast, but had no idea where to go. Joriam had taken away his robe and nightshirt and had not yet returned. He opened the door; two unfamiliar King’s Squires stood guard on either side. Across the passage, Paks sat on a bench, chatting with another. She looked up and smiled at him, the same open smile she’d always had but now—with his memories of what she had undergone for his sake—he felt embarrassed. The corner of her mouth quirked, as if she had read his mind.
    “Sir King,” she said, standing. “They tell me breakfast is ready downstairs, or someone will bring it—”
    “I’ll go down,” he said. One of the King’s Squires went ahead of him; Paks moved to his side as if he’d commanded her; the other King’s Squires fell in behind. “You did sleep last night?” he said to Paks.
    “Enough,” she said. He eyed her. She was still much as she had been when he first saw her. Yet … not. She had been just another recruit, and now she was Gird’s paladin. Not, as she had pointed out, his to command any longer. “Captain Dorrin’s awake; she has a report on the cohort for you.”
    “I wonder if Sir Ammerlin made it safely back to Vérella.” More than that, he wondered what the Tsaian Council would do, with one of its dukes now king of a neighboring domain and another proven traitor.
    Paks did not quite shrug; he could sense her lack of interest in these things. Her quest had been to find Lyonya’s king; she had done so; now she had a respite before, he assumed, Gird sent her somewhere else.
    In the passage outside the dining hall, a group of Lyonyan nobles milled about as if waiting for something to happen. He saw Dorrin, looking faintly amused, standing to one side, and a smaller group of elves even farther away.
    “The king,” announced the lead King’s Squire, and everyone stepped back, bowing, murmuring greetings.
    “Good morning,” Kieri said. He could think of nothing else to say. Apparently that was enough, because the doors to the dining hall opened and he led the way in. A man in the green castle livery bowed him to a seat at one end of a table large enough, he thought, to hold fencing matches on … far too large for breakfast … and by the time everyone was seated, it was only half full, if that.
    Breakfast, in Lyonya, meant hot breads, butter and honey, soft cheeses, fruit. None of the porridge he was used to, no meats, no eggs. He made no requests, wanting to know first what was expected. The talk at table was general, casual—nobles asked after each other’s children, or discussed the likelihood of a good crop of wheat this year. Nothing of substance, and nothing addressed specifically to him. When he felt almost full, another tray came in, this one holding rolls of flaky pastry tied with thin green ribbons. One was placed before him, and then before each of the others. Silence fell. Kieri regarded the pastry roll; the others looked at theirs, and then at him.
    He picked it up, unwrapped the ribbon, and took a cautious bite. Pastry crumbs scattered, as the others did the same. One of the nobles—Sier Belvarin, he thought he recalled—turned to him.
    “Sir King, we really should begin planning your coronation.”
    So … the pastry rolls were a signal that business could be discussed? That the king could be addressed? He nodded at Belvarin.
    “You know that I am not familiar with all your customs and traditions—what do you suggest?”
    Glances passed back and forth across the table. “Well …” Belvarin seemed reluctant to go on. Kieri waited. “The period of deep mourning for the late king has passed, but by custom—”
    “Not that it matters,” another noble spoke up. “Your coronation must supersede—”
    “We must