The Swordsman's Oath (Einarinn 2) by Juliet E. McKenna Page A

scavengers picking at the stinking carrion that’s left of the Empire.”
    “You sound more like your Uncle Arvil than your father.” Jetta blinked away an unbidden memory.
    “What do you think my father would have done?” Temar held her with his pale gaze.
    “He’d have done what he felt was best for the House.” Jetta gripped Temar’s hand. “But he’d have been honest enough to know that it had to be something he felt was right for himself as well.”
    “I’m fairly sure that’s what I’m doing,” sighed Temar. “But I do sometimes wonder if I’m just looking for somewhere to run off to, some way of getting out from under all the duty and obligation.”
    “It’s hard being the only one left to carry the Name,” Jetta comforted him. “You know, when your grandfather crosses to the Otherworld, it’s not Saedrin who’ll be asking the questions before he opens the doors. The Sieur is going to want some answers about just what that cursed plague was supposed to be for. They’re going to have to be good ones!”
    Temar smiled. “Do you suppose the old man will demand free passage from Poldrion as well? On account of his ferry having so much trade from our House already?”
    “I wouldn’t put it past him!” laughed Jetta. “Now, if you’re staying for dinner, you can make yourself useful. Go and get some sea-coal in from the yard and then you can make a start on the vegetables.”
    Temar made her a mocking bow. “At once, Mistress.”
    Doing something both useful and undemanding helped Temar to relax. He had very nearly managed to put aside all thoughts of the future, duty and conflict by the time he was concentrating on washing the earth out of the last greens of the autumn. The jangle of a bell high up in the house startled him and he looked ruefully at Jetta.
    “I think that’s my summons.”
    She came around the table and wiped his hands on a cloth as if he were still a child. “Try not to let him get you cross; you know what he’s like. If you’re sure of what you want, he’s going to have to accept it eventually.”
    That was easy enough for Jetta to say, Temar thought, without heat, as he climbed the narrow stairs back to the formal rooms of the house. How often did any man called D’Alsennin give in gracefully? About as often as a bitch whelped kittens, he’d say.
    He remembered to pull the clasp from his pocket and clip back his hair before he reached his grandfather’s study. He paused for a moment and looked at the gleaming silver, remembering how long it had taken to get the tarnish out of the deeply carved leaves. Temar sighed, remembering how the candlelight had used to catch at it when his father turned back to the door after coming to check on the children last thing at night. Well, he couldn’t ask his father’s advice, so all he could do was be true to himself and his Name.
    He knocked on the black door and braced himself.
    “Enter.” His grandfather’s voice was firm and Temar saw that his face was determined but more at peace with himself.
    Temar closed the door and took a seat across from the old man, keeping his face impassive as he wondered what part all the ledgers and rolls on the table were going to play in their discussion.
    “I have been considering your petition,” the Sieur began formally. “While you are the sole heir of this House, safe-guarding the future of the Name must be my first consideration. However I realize I must also do justice to your own wishes and needs.”
    He paused. Temar sat silent, trying to look attentive and deferential.
    “I cannot see any benefit to you joining Den Fellaemion and crossing the ocean on your own.” There was a challenge in the old man’s eyes as he took a sip of wine but Temar refused to take the bait, remaining still and quiet.
    The Sieur snorted and replaced his glass in its silver holder. “However, it is certainly possible that these lands overseas could offer us estates and position to replace what we