“In Phelan’s company, we always used sir, to man or woman commander. And I am displacing a duke’s widow, who is used to the term lady. Let it be ‘my lord,’ odd as it may seem to your ear. It is an odd situation.”

Valthan nodded, and turned to the others. He had all the names, the order of precedence, and presented each with grave courtesy to “my lord, the Duke of Verrakai” and Dorrin acknowledged each bow with a slight one of her own.

Marshal Berris listened as Dorrin explained what she wanted to do to reassure Sir Valthan and gave Valthan a sharp look. “I saw her fight over near Darkon Edge,” he said. “I have no doubt of her loyalty to the Crown. And if the paladin I met there believes she has sufficient magery—and his own note proves she has the prince’s permission to use it—”

“I am responsible for my troop,” Valthan said. He sounded stubborn.

“Dorrin?” Marshal Berris said, using her name as if he considered her a friend. Her heart warmed to him.

“I was reluctant to demonstrate my powers to Sir Valthan alone,” Dorrin said. “I suggested coming here, precisely because it is Gird’s Code that forbids the use of magery, and thus we can assume Gird will be watching to assure that I do not go beyond the barest need. Also I believe that you, Marshal, will be able to discern if I am using any evil source of power. I fully understand why Sir Valthan feels he must know something of what I can do.”

Berris chewed his lip a moment. Finally he nodded. “Come into the grange,” he said. “First we pray, then we see what happens.” He led them inside, then shut and barred the outer door. His yeoman-marshal came out of the back offices, brows raised. “Sarn, I have business I may not speak of this morning. Go to the barton gate, and tell any yeomen who come that I will open the main door when I can. We should be through here by noon, should we not?” He looked at Dorrin.

“Yes,” she said. “I doubt more than a turn of the glass.”

“You don’t know how long my prayers will take,” he said, with a grim smile. “Tell them, Sarn, and do not interrupt or come nearer.”

“Yes, Marshal,” Sarn said, and went out, closing the side door behind him.

Dorrin looked around the big room with its platform at one end, the weapons racked along the walls. High windows let in diffused light.

“Come onto the platform,” Berris said. He himself went to a niche at the end of the room, and withdrew something from it. “This is a relic,” he said. It looked to Dorrin like a roughly hewn knobbly stick. “We believe Gird actually held it. Dorrin, it is a truth-test, and I will not demand you take it—you are a Knight of Falk and I know Falkians to be honorable—but it might reassure Sir Valthan.”