—Claire de Murrow
Glosstyr Keep
（watching the boys play in the training yard）
CHAPTER THREE
Averanche
The wax seal of his mother’s crest had gotten Ransom past the gate and into the great hall of Averanche castle. It was evening when he arrived, and the raucous noise coming from the trestle tables indicated that those enjoying the food were both hungry and well acquainted with one another. Ransom followed his guide, the castle’s silver-haired steward, past rows of sullen men, most with broad shoulders and grizzled beards. They looked like knights. Another row was full of enthusiastic youths who boasted of their achievements of the day and clashed their metal cups together in raucous toasts. The knights ate together. The youths ate separately. All the noise came from one side until a bear of a man with a balding pate and scruffy beard rose from the bench and shouted, “Enough of this racket!”
The thunder of his shout quieted most of the lads, but Ransom heard some of them laughing still.
One of the young men at the table stood out to Ransom, for he wore a very fine tunic, one with intricate patterns threaded into the fabric. It was a prince’s costume. His hair was the color of dried thatching, and he was the only one at his table who wore a decorative gorget collar over his tunic. All of the boys at the table had smudges of dirt on their faces, and some had bruises. The fair-headed young man turned as Ransom was escorted past, his eyes blue and penetrating. He said something to those at the table, and suddenly four sets of eyes followed him the rest of the way. The fancy-dressed youth gave Ransom a mocking salute with his cup and a grin full of open contempt.
Ransom had been eager to meet Lord Kinghorn, but his stomach suddenly twisted with worry. After passing through the great hall, the steward took Ransom down a torchlit stone hall. The smell of the sea, which he’d enjoyed as far as the castle walls, had been completely quenched by smoke from the burning pitch in the torches. Averanche was an older castle, one built along the coast between Westmarch and Brythonica to defend against invasions by land or sea.
The steward came to a stop in front of a heavy oak door and knocked on it firmly before pushing it open. The scrape of the door against stone could be heard, and they stepped into a room lit by oil lamps, not torches. A windowed porch door lay open, allowing in a fresh breeze. It was a private study, one with a writing desk full of papers and leather-bound books. There were books everywhere, in fact—some stacked on end tables, a shelf haphazardly cluttered with them. A stand by the hearth held four swords of differing sizes.
Lord Kinghorn sat in the chair behind that desk, a neglected meal on the table before him, and he was coughing violently into his fist. Ransom saw the unfolded note with his mother’s broken seal on the table atop other papers.
“Here is the boy, Sir Bryon,” said the steward, who then stood by the door.
Interrupted in his coughing fit, the large man gestured for Ransom to wait as he took a sip from a bronze chalice. Ransom hadn’t been sure what to expect, but his mother’s cousin was quite a bit older than her, his gray hair combed back from his forehead. He had broad shoulders, the physique of a warrior, but there was something interesting in the love of books on display throughout the chamber.
“Pardon,” said the man in a wheezing voice. “The smoke from the . . . the torches . . . I can’t abide it. Come in. Come in.” He gestured with a stern smile, waving Ransom in. He coughed again, a deep grating cough that did not sound like it was from the smoke. The hearth had no fire lit within it.
The nobleman gazed at Ransom, who stood across from the desk. “Look at you, lad. So you are the one I’ve heard so much about.” His eyes were penetrating but not unkind. He looked serious for a moment, and then a smile lit his face. “Good-looking. You seem sturdy. I wish you had been free to come here earlier. Most of the young lads training are only twelve, and you’re at least fourteen.”
Ransom paused, not sure whether to interrupt, then said, “I’m twelve, sir.”
Lord Kinghorn’s eyebrows lifted. “Twelve, you say? I wouldn’t have believed it. You’ll be taller than the rest your age. Well, I’ll take you in as Sibyl requested. You didn’t ride to Averanche in vain. You’re my kinsman. I don’t have space for you, but not every boy who has agreed to train will make it.” He sniffed, his expression darkening, and another violent fit of coughing took over. Ransom waited patiently.
After regaining his power of speech, Lord Kinghorn looked at Ransom again in his keen way. “While you were hostage to King Gervase, did you do much training? You wear a sword, but can you use it?”